


to enter the new eden

by peltonea



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: ASL, Ableism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Communion | Eucharist, Deputy Joins the Seeds, Gen, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Torture, Interrogation, Mute Deputy, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Religious Cults, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2019-09-22 20:48:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 25,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17066834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peltonea/pseuds/peltonea
Summary: "Behold, a white horse... and Hell followed with him."In which Whitehorse’s plan was a little different: instead of arresting Joseph Seed and risking a backlash from the Peggies, someone stays behind— a miraculous conversion— while Whitehorse and Burke assess the threat posed by the Project at Eden’s Gate and gather backup.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly, I am not American and I am not Deaf or mute. So if there are any inaccuracies in either the general setting or the descriptions of ASL, I apologise. Please feel free to correct me, and I will do my best to edit this accordingly. I’ve just kind of assumed that Hope County is pretty similar to my own home in that most people do not know sign language, and that if they do, they are limited to a few signs, like “hello”, “goodbye”, etc. All italicised phrases are to indicate that they are being signed.
> 
> Secondly, as a content warning, this story will contain both discussions of homophobia and actual homophobia. This Deputy is a gay man, and much of this story takes place in an extreme religious cult. And, obviously, I as a gay woman don’t agree with the characters who express homophobic opinions. There is no smut, the rating is because of the religious horror and violence, which are pretty much in-keeping with the game.

The thing is, Rook knows that heading out to the Eden’s Gate compound is a bad idea. He’s not stupid. He reads the news. He’s been reading up on cults and shit ever since the Peggies appeared in Hope County. Apocalypse cults generally start going extra crazy when they think their apocalypse is nigh. Nigh-er, anyway.

Law enforcement appearing out of nowhere and arresting the Eden’s Gate leader was always going to be a bad idea.

Whitehorse points that out when Burke first suggests his plan. Even supposing that the compound is only a hundred or so people, that’s still a hundred or so who can and will lose it when Joseph Seed is arrested. That’s a hundred or so people more than four officers and a US Marshall can take down at once. When it comes to dealing with cults, the more people available to disarm and calm hysterical believers, the better. So the logical thing to do is for Burke to arrange a sizable force to back them up.

“That’s going to be pretty fucking hard when there’s no evidence that Eden’s Gate is that big,” Burke says, a scowl plastered over his face.

“We’ve seen them drive in from all over,” Pratt says. “I mean, the crime rate has more than quintupled since the Peggies arrived.”

“Look,” Burke folds his arms, speaks through gritted teeth. “We’re going to need more than that. There’s a thousand and one other disasters the Marshalls are looking into right now. Whole country’s a goddamn mess.”

“It’s that bad, huh?” Whitehorse asks. He pauses. “So if we could gather more hard evidence that these Peggies are actually a threat…?”

“Then my bosses would have no choice but to send backup,” Burke says. “Speaking of, you still haven’t convinced me that this isn’t just a regular church that happens to have a criminally-inclined congregation.”

Whitehorse sighs, and Rook does, too. If the videos weren’t enough to convince Burke that his presence was necessary…

“I guess we’ll just have to show you,” Whitehorse says, leaning back in his chair.

The plan comes together pretty quickly. If they want to gather information to convince Burke and the other Marshalls that the Project at Eden’s Gate needs more attention and resources, they need more evidence. Evidence which can only be found by someone on the inside.

They need to run an undercover operation.

Hudson initially volunteers to be the mole, but is unanimously ousted by everybody else.

“I don’t trust those Seeds,” Whitehorse says. “I don’t intend to sound sexist, or as though I don’t appreciate your skills, but you’ll be in far too much danger.”

 _I agree_ , Rook signs.

“You really want to stay in a silo full of religious nuts who prob’ly haven’t seen a woman in months?” Pratt asks incredulously.

“So you’re volunteering?” Hudson replies sweetly, a hint of steel under her sugared tone.

“Uh—“ Pratt stammers, caught off-guard. 

“I’m with Whitehorse,” Burke interrupts. “Sorry, Hudson, but you’ll be at a far higher risk of assault and harassment.”

They agree that it shouldn’t be Whitehorse, as he’s too old and too well-known. It shouldn’t be Burke either, because he needs to be free to examine their evidence and then report back to his bosses and gather more backup. So that leaves Pratt and Rook, and Pratt looks like he’s about to faint just at the thought of being stuck with the Peggies for so long.

So then that leaves one choice. The youngest, newest Deputy.

 _I’ll do it_ , Rook signs, firmly.

“Really?” Whitehorse looks surprised. Burke is obviously confused, having made clear the last couple days that he doesn’t know any signs at all. Pratt looks relieved.

“Don’t you think Rook’s going to be in almost as much danger as me?” Hudson asks. “I mean, what if they try to put him in conversion therapy or something?”

 _Nobody’s going to know I’m gay unless I tell them_ , Rook signs. 

“Hold up,” Burke says. “He’s volunteering?”

“Yeah,” Pratt says.

“How’s that going to work?” Burke asks, this time addressing Rook directly. “You can’t call us if something goes wrong. How are you going to send the information to us?”

_I can leave notes and send coded texts. We’ll figure something out._

“He can leave notes and send coded texts,” Whitehorse translates, before Burke can ask. “We can decide the details later.”

Burke doesn’t look happy, but he nods.

One week, and no less than six exhausting, coffee-fuelled meetings later, they climb into the helicopter and they head out toward Joseph Seed’s compound.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added tags for ableism, because i just realised that i forgot to do that earlier. The ableism is largely other characters misunderstanding Rook’s disability (ie, assuming that he has a intellectual disability) and lack of communication skills rather than actual malice, but I figured it’ll be prominent enough to warrant a warning. 
> 
> also, i have never worked as a cop, or in any profession linked to the legal system. all my information and assumptions are from many years of watching crime tv shows and reading crime mystery novels. please take everything with a pinch of salt or eight.

The ride to the compound is quiet, broken only by the sound of the helicopter engines and Pratt’s location updates.

“Crossing over the Henbane now,” he says. Rook tries to ignore the knot of anxiety in his stomach. There’s so much that can go wrong.

Whitehorse is the only one to notice Rook’s agitation.

“It’s not too late to back out now, Rookie,” he says. “If you did, there’d be no shame in it.”

Rook shakes his head. Getting the evidence is more important than anything else right now. The Project at Eden’s Gate is causing enough trouble as it is. He can’t just stand back and let things get worse.

“Fair enough, then. Remember the plan?”

Rook nods. The short version is that Rook is to throw himself into the cult, deep as he can. Since he’s only been around Hope County for a year, and much of the County lack any knowledge of sign language, his personality and past remain a mystery to most of the population.

It’s pretty easy to throw together a fake persona, one that the cult will hopefully recognise as an ideal convert: where Rook is at ease and accepting of himself, Cultist Rook is fearful and self-hating. Cultist Rook is perpetually anxious and eager to please, his muteness a nigh-insurmountable barrier and his sexuality a disgusting secret. Cultist Rook hungers for friendship and for family, longing for someone— anyone— to wholly understand and accept him. Cultist Rook is the type of man to work himself to exhaustion for a single kind word or a smile.

Rook is to keep a cellphone with a camera, sending photos and audio recordings if it’s safe to do so. If not, he should try to smuggle out any internal recordings that the cult may have, or any incriminating documents he finds. They’ve arranged a number of drop-off points in public places, with the abandoned 8-Bit Pizza Bar acting as a base of operations in lieu of the obviously conspicuous Sheriff’s Office.

Secrecy is going to be the key to success. The Peggies have eyes and ears everywhere. Even Dispatch doesn’t know that Rook is staying behind. But the most important thing is to take the investigation slowly: Rook won’t be trusted automatically. Whatever else they might be, the Seed family are not stupid.

“We’re here,” Pratt says. “Compound’s just below.”

“Be careful,” Burke says, when Pratt begins their descent. Rook nods.

“Now listen up,” Whitehorse says. “Three rules: stick close, keep your guns in your holsters, and let me do the talking. Got it?”

Pratt stays in the helicopter when they land, and Whitehorse orders Dispatch to send reinforcements if they don’t check in within fifteen minutes. Rook makes eye contact with Pratt when he climbs out, a solemn nod goodbye. Pratt nods back, and watches them walk through the compound, ready to leap into action if necessary.

Rook walks behind the others, taking his time. It’s dark, and the dirt path is slick with recent rainfall. Even at nearly three AM, there’s a flurry of activity. Men and women linger along the dirt road, glaring at the officers.

“He’ll be in the Church,” Whitehorse says. “Stick close. Eyes open. These folks can spook easily.”

“They’ve come to take the Father…” one man mutters, eyeing Rook while swinging a baseball bat almost absent-mindedly.

“Just go about your business, this doesn’t concern you,” Whitehorse calls, to the numerous cult members gathering along the path.

“I don’t like this,” Hudson says, gripping her shotgun tight.

“Everything’s fine,” Whitehorse reassures her.

“Jesus Christ, you’re wearing badges, aren’t you?” Burke says, dismissively.

“They don’t respect badges much out here,” Hudson replies.

“They’ll respect a nine millimetre,” Burke says, and Rook can hear the smile in his voice.

They stop, briefly, at the church doors.

It doesn’t feel real. There’s the earthy smell from the wood and the mud, and a chill in the air, but it doesn’t feel real. The ethereal singing coming from the Church doesn’t help. Who holds a service at three in the damn morning?

Rook takes a deep breath.

“Calm down,” Whitehorse says, gently. He turns to the others, nods, and they continue with the plan: Hudson, the best shot in the department, stays at the church doors. Rook, Burke, and Whitehorse enter, Rook trailing behind his bosses.

The singing stops as the doors open. The devout turn their heads, slowly standing from the pews as Whitehorse and Burke make their way down the aisle. At the bottom of the aisle, where the pulpit ought to be, is the man himself. Joseph Seed. For some reason, despite the fact they’re in a church and the air is cold, he’s shirtless. That doesn’t make him any less menacing.

“Something is coming. You can feel it, can’t you?”

Joseph doesn’t stop talking as they approach, his voice echoing through the church as he prophesies the end of days. He’s charismatic, speaking with conviction, the passion in his words only rising as the physical distance between them decreases. His sermon continues even when Burke interrupts.

“They will try to take from us. Take our guns, take our freedom. Take our faith. We will not let them. We will not let their greed or their immorality or their depravity hurt us any more! There will be no more suffering!”

“Joseph Seed! I have a warrant for your arrest on suspicion of kidnapping with the intent to harm. Now I want you to step forward and keep your hands where I can see them.”

Joseph Seed obeys, but he continues preaching nonetheless. The cultists in the church gather, intimidatingly.

“There they are, the locusts in our garden. See, they’ve come for me. They’ve come to take me away from you. They’ve come to destroy all that we’ve built!”

“Stand down!” Whitehorse yells, as Burke reaches for his gun. Joseph steps forward, gently pushing his followers aside. He’s calm. Too calm.

“We knew this moment would come,” Joseph says, and it’s like a switch has been flipped. The cultists are docile once more. “We’ve prepared for it. Go.”

The cultists glance at each other. Joseph speaks again.

“Go.”

The cultists start filing out, giving Rook and the others dirty looks.

“God will not let them take me.”

Joseph raises his arms, quoting Revelations. He is, unfortunately, an excellent public speaker.

“Step forward!” Burke snaps.

“Behold, it was a white horse,” Joseph continues, as though Burke hadn’t spoken. Nonetheless, he does obey. He puts his arms out, wrists close together, ready to be cuffed. “And Hell followed with him.

Burke rolls his eyes.

“Rookie, cuff this son of a bitch.”

Joseph Seed stays still, stays compliant. His only form of resistance is an unblinking stare and seven words.

“God will not let you take me.”

Rook hesitates. Maybe they could make it to the helicopter after all. If Joseph really is being compliant, then maybe they could just arrest him and get this over with. He glances to Whitehorse, then to Burke.

No, there’s no time to discuss this. They need to follow through with the plan. Even if they did arrest Joseph here and now, there’s no doubt John would manage to get his brother off with a slap on the wrist despite the serious charges levelled against him.

They don’t have enough evidence.

Rook takes a deep breath, and instead kneels at the Father’s feet.

“What the fuck?” Burke asks, flatly. A few seconds pass. Rook does not raise his head. “Whitehorse, you’re not checking for this shit now?”

“I told you, we’re not prepared to deal with this,” Whitehorse replies. He’s a good actor, his voice quiet, cracking in all the right ways. He sounds afraid. From the corner of his eye, Rook can see Burke take a half-step closer. And then— “What in the hell do you think you’re doing, Marshal?”

“We’re not leaving without making the arrest!” Burke snaps. “I am a federal officer, and—“

“You’re going to get us all killed is what you are!” Whitehorse replies. “Just how long d’you think we’re gonna last? The two of us, plus Hudson out there, versus all these motherfuckers with guns? We ain’t gonna make it halfway to the helicopter if we take Pastor Seed with us.”

“What do you suggest?” Burke snarls. “I can’t ignore a federal warrant!”

“I’m not asking you to!” A moment of silence. “Joseph Seed, would you be willing to answer a few of our questions?”

“He would not,” a new voice says smoothly, and Rook can hear the gentle tapping of hideously expensive shoes on the hard wooden floor. John Seed, for sure. “If you want to interrogate any member of the Project at Eden’s Gate, you’ll have to place them under arrest and allow them their legal right to representation. We are not legally obliged to answer you, much less outside of those circumstances.”

“I was afraid you’d say that,” Whitehorse sounds strained. He sighs. “Burke, we’re leaving.”

“What?” Burke demands. “We—“

“Don’t have a choice,” Whitehorse says, sounding utterly defeated. “Rook, you coming?”

Rook ignores him.

“Don’t fucking ignore him, you son of a bitch,” Burke hisses. “I’ll arrest you too, don’t think I fucking won’t.”

“I’d be interested to know what you’ll be charging Mr Rook with,” John Seed says. He sounds casual, like he’s commenting on the weather. “Under the Constitution, we all have a right to freedom of religion. Or does that not apply to him?”

Burke doesn’t even get to inhale before Whitehorse cuts him off.

“Burke, stop! You really want to get in a dogfight with the most ruthless lawyer ever produced by the state of Georgia? ‘Cause I am telling you, this will not end well.”

Rook can hear Whitehorse take a few steps back

“Rook, if you’re coming back to Fall’s End with us, you better get up now. Burke, with me.”

Burke makes a noise of frustration and anger, but he obeys. The doors to the chapel squeak open, and at the edge of his hearing, Rook can make out a brief conversation:

Hudson asks something, confused. She definitely says ‘Rook’.

Burke snaps something in response, while Whitehorse explains more kindly. They both call Rook a Peggie, at any rate.

Hudson says something else. A one-syllable word. Rook is pretty sure it’s ‘shit’. The doors close.

Rook feels cool hands at his jaw. He allows those hands to gently lift his face, and gazes up into the dark-ringed eyes of Joseph Seed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reason I chose ‘John’ as Rook’s first name is that 1) it’s the most common first name in my country, and 2) I think it’s an easy way to make sure everyone keeps calling him ‘Deputy’ or ‘Rook’, even though a cult like Eden's Gate would probably prefer to use first names. I just personally prefer using the 'canon' names of customisable characters, whether that's Shepard from ME, or Hawke from DA or something else.

There is silence for a long moment. Joseph’s pale, sunken eyes are unsettling behind the yellow aviators. He’s crouched close enough that Rook can feel the warmth of his breath.

Rook does his best to keep his breathing even, gazing into Joseph’s unblinking stare. He tries to look enraptured, adoring, even. Which is really hard, because it looks like Joseph Seed hasn’t slept, eaten, or even bathed for about a week.

Finally, Joseph blinks, and draws himself back up to full height, a gentle pressure on Rook’s jaw indicating that he, too, ought to rise. Joseph turns to face his family: Rook can see Jacob staring straight ahead, impassive, while Faith clasps her hands in delight. Joseph stretches his arms out.

“God has granted us clemency in our hour of need,” Joseph says, sounding almost like a normal human being.

“Hallelujah!” Faith cries, her voice like a bell.

“I told you, did I not? God will not let them take me,” Joseph continues. “And He delivered unto us a lamb.”

“You see a lamb,” Jacob says, turning his gaze upon his brother. “But I see a wolf.”

“If he is, then John will surely draw a confession from him,” Joseph replies, nonchalantly. “And then he shall atone. No, my beloved brother, this is an opportunity for us.”

Jacob does not look convinced, but he nods anyway. Joseph turns back to Rook, places his hands kindly upon his shoulders.

“Now, I don’t believe I know your name, child,” Joseph says. Rook raises his right hand so that Joseph can clearly see it, and mouths as he spells:

J-O-H-N

Joseph raises his eyebrows slightly. It’s the biggest display of emotion Rook has seen so far, other than the fire-and-brimstone preaching.

“My sincerest apologies,” Joseph says, after a moment. His Georgian accent comes through a little stronger, probably out of surprise. “I’m afraid I don’t know what that means.”

Rook considers this for a moment. He has a pen and paper in his pocket, but he doesn’t want to make any sudden movements that might be misconstrued as an attack. All of this is for nothing if he gets his neck snapped or gets shot full of holes. So instead Rook shifts to the side a little, points to John, who frowns, and then to the little name badge on Rook’s shirt.

“...John Rook?” Joseph asks. Rook nods. Joseph does not smile, but his voice is warm when he continues. “Well then, John Rook, welcome to my flock. Welcome to Eden's Gate.”

Rook inclines his head, gives Joseph a small smile. He touches his right hand to his jaw, just below his lip, and then moves it forward, so his palm faces the ceiling.

_Thank you._

It’s clear that Joseph doesn’t know the sign, but he seems to at least understand that the intent behind it is positive.

“Let me introduce you to the others,” he says.

Joseph leads him to the doors of the church, the rest of the Seed family flanking them, and opens the doors again, the night air somehow colder than before. They step out onto the mud, then down toward the compound courtyard. They don’t take the same route as before, but go between the houses, Joseph gesturing to the anxious-looking cultists milling about to join them.

“My children! Come to me!” Joseph calls, and Rook tries not to count the number of cultists who are suddenly staring at him. It’s a lot. At least twenty or thirty, more than he could take down before being torn apart.

They reach the courtyard, coming to a stop at the spot the helicopter was a few minutes before. There are still marks on the ground. Rook wonders if the others have reached Fall's End yet.

Joseph is silent for a moment. He takes his hand from Rook’s shoulder and starts speaking again. He starts quietly, calmly, and very quickly returns to his charismatic hellfire-and-brimstone preaching.

“Tonight, the Lord granted us victory over those who would destroy us. Tonight, He shielded us from harm. Instead of bringing about the Collapse, as I had feared, the Lord brought us a new brother, a new member of our community. He brought us a man brave enough to do what is right, instead of what is lawful. He brought us Deputy Rook, and I thank Him for that!”

It’s fascinating, and slightly terrifying, to watch the changes in the cultists as Joseph talks. They start out wary, confused, segueing into understanding, and then unbridled joy. By the end of the short speech, they’re clapping and smiling.

“Thank the Lord!” one cultist says— the same one who held a baseball bat so menacingly earlier— hands rising in praise.

Jesus. Joseph Seed is one hell of a preacher.

“Now, I know that some of you may be wary," Joseph starts again, this time far more sombre. "Truth be told, I am a little too. It seems to good to be true, doesn't it, that the Lord would give us such a gracious gift at the exact moment we needed it the most. But that is what the Lord does for his children. He protects us, just as he protected the Jews on their exodus from Egypt, just as he protected Mary and Joseph as they fled Bethlehem while hunted by Herod.”

Joseph gestures, and John steps forward, taking Rook’s arm none-too-gently.

“Our new brother will be Cleansed. He will Confess. He will Atone. And then when all is said and done, he will join us in Eden.”

John pulls Rook away from Joseph and the crowd, back toward the church. A handful of cultists join them, these ones still armed to the teeth. As they walk, Joseph’s impromptu sermon continues.

“Oh, Lord, I thank You for sending us another soul to be saved! I thank You for saving me— for saving us—when it seemed that we might be undone! Thank you Lord, for giving us more time to prepare for the Collapse, for the opportunity to save more of Your creation! I thank You, Lord, for the reminder that nobody is beyond salvation! Even those who seek to destroy us may still see Your light! Brothers and sisters, I implore you— let us celebrate our victory tonight in the grace of our Lord!”

The cheering that erupts is cacophonous, drowning out even the sound of Rook’s footsteps in the tacky mud.

When they reach the church, John leads Rook to the left, through the gate that leads to the lake. They pause at the shoreline, where John shucks off his coat and hands it to one of the armed cultists, who carefully folds it and drapes it over his arm. Then John wades into the water until it’s waist-high.

Rook glances back at the armed cultists: two have gone to stand in the knee-high waters, and there are another two standing on the shore, near the gate. He glances back to John Seed, who looks impatient.

“Come on,” John says. “We don’t have all night.”

Rook steps into the water, hissing through his teeth as the freezing waters slosh into his boots, soaking his thighs and shirt. It’s nearly Halloween, and although the days have been sunny lately, Hope County is getting real cold. Rook tries his best to suppress his shivering as he wades over to John.

“Now then,” John says, and although he’s smiling, there’s something distinctly unpleasant in his eyes. “Let’s get you clean.”

Then he shoves Rook under the water, holding him down.


	4. Chapter 4

Rook doesn’t have time to brace himself, the cold water shocking his system into paralysis for a moment. John Seed is surprisingly strong, holding Rook firmly in place even as his feet slip on the sand and stone beneath him.

Rook tries to keep his eyes open, gritting his teeth against the burning pain of frigid water against his eyeballs. He’s survived worse than this. He pushes one hand against the lake bed, steadying himself, tries to get his feet back in place underneath him. It’s hard, at the weird angle John has him at.

A few air bubbles escape Rook’s nose and mouth, lungs beginning to burn. He’s pretty damn sure that adult baptisms don’t take this long. Not that he’d know personally, having been raised Lutheran, but— it’s supposed to be a couple seconds, right? Not— what is this? Half a minute? More?

John wouldn’t drown him, right? Rook still has to atone and stuff, doesn't he?

Rook squints up at John, whose face is distorted by the ripples on the water’s surface. He looks calm,maybe. It’s hard to tell, now his face is out of the moonlight.

A few more air bubbles escape. He needs to breathe. Rook reaches up to where John’s gripping his shoulders, taps at his wrist urgently.

John’s hands grip tighter. Rook’s lungs burn. He taps again, harder, faster

Rook can see John’s teeth. A smile?

He can’t hold his breath any more. He breathes in, unwillingly.

Water, in his nose, mouth, his lungs. It hurts.

Then he’s out of the water, choking and coughing, trying desperately to refill his lungs with air instead.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” John says, kindly, like he didn’t just nearly drown Rook. One hand leaves his shoulder, swiping Rook’s hair from his eyes, coming to rest over his heart.

Rook is too busy coughing to respond, spitting out yet more lake water.

“Unfortunately, you’re still not clean,” John says, and forces him back under.

Rook struggles this time— he didn’t sign up to die, didn’t agree to being drowned like this, he’s barely twenty-four— to no avail.

Maybe it’s the religious fanaticism. Maybe it’s evil lawyer powers. Maybe John hits the gym when he’s not doing God-knows-what for Eden’s Gate. Whatever the reason, John is surprisingly strong. He doesn’t budge an inch.

There’s a vice-like grip at the base of Rook’s throat. Rook thrashes, claws at it with his own numb fingers. It’s a hand. Realisation hits like a fucking freight train.

John’s trying to strangle him.

He’s going to die.

He’s really going to die.

Rook fights back harder, kicking wildly. He can’t feel his legs, but he must hit something, because John loses his grip, stumbling backward.

That’s all the opportunity Rook needs. He half-swims, half-crawls, putting a couple metres between him and John. He manages to get his feet back under himself, breaking the surface of the water, taking in deep lungfuls of sweet, sweet air.

“Get back here!”

There’s pressure on Rook’s back, and he falls forward. Hands twisted in his hair, a knee in his spine, the lake bed rising up to meet Rook’s face. He closes his eyes, ignores the scraping of rock and grit against his face, fights back with every ounce of strength left in his numb, exhausted body.

Rook’s elbow hits hard against something firm, and his head is pulled back up sharply.

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” John snarls in his ear. “I’m trying to help you! Stop fighting!”

Rook manages to pivot, striking John in the face. He stumbles back a couple paces, and Rook scrambles backward onto the shoreline. He glances around. The guards have their guns aimed at Rook, but they aren't shooting. Jacob stands on the shore. Presumably he told them not to fire. 

“Serious question,” says Jacob. He takes a couple long strides and crouches over Rook. He’s not talking to him, though. His gaze is fixed on the water. “Did you actually tell him what the Cleansing is?”

“What?” John snaps. He’s very wet, very angry, and still standing in the lake. He’s clutching at his eye. Good. Rook hopes he can't even open that eye in the morning, that it'll bruise and swell like Hell. He deserves it, and so much more, for trying to murder Rook after all of twenty minutes.

“Looks to me like he doesn’t know a goddamn thing,” Jacob continues. He reaches forward— Rook’s breath catching in his throat— and touches his face. Jacob brings his fingers back, and there's streaks of red. Blood. “Which makes sense, considering that he’s been surrounded by cops rather than the faithful. You’re the genius, you figure it out.”

John is very still and very silent for a few moments.

“Oh,” he says. He clears his throat. “Well, I guess he’s clean enough now.”

Jacob stands up.

“You guess?”

“He is,” John corrects himself, too quickly. “He’s clean, I’m sure of it.”

“Good,” Jacob says. He nods toward Rook, and a couple of the armed cultists holster their weapons before rushing forward to scoop him up off the ground.

Everything after that is a bit of a blur.

Rook is lead to one of the houses in the compound, supported by the men who helped him up. The houses turn out to be dormitories— surprisingly cosy, for brightly-lit halls stuffed with bunk beds. He receives a change of clothes— the white and red and black of the other cultists. And then, once dried and dressed, he’s bundled into several blankets and sat on a bunk, where he’s given hot chamomile tea by Faith. She coos over him like a child despite the fact they’re the same age.

“Oh, I’m so glad you decided to join us,” Faith says, cupping his cheek like a mother. “I was worried, you know. That you might usher in the Collapse, that everything we worked so hard for might be destroyed. But I’m so glad that’s not the case!”

Rook nods. The warmth is a nice change, but it’s three in the morning and he’s fucking tired. The tea and the softness surrounding him is making Rook acutely aware of that fact. He takes another sip of tea, the mild floral taste somehow both refreshing and soothing at the same time. The armed cultists have left, leaving only the dormitory residents who quietly watch Faith, utterly enraptured by her presence.

“You poor thing,” Faith continues. “It must be so lonely, being unable to speak. But don’t worry— you are one of us now. You are not broken here.”

Rook grits his teeth. He’s not broken in the first place, thanks.

“We are misfits, people cast out from the rest of society,” Faith continues, sweetly, earnestly. “Even the Father— did you know that he was homeless, before God chose him? And Jacob too. And I— I was bullied, and I found comfort in awful things. In drugs and alcohol… but now I’m clean. Thanks to the Father, I’m whole again. And you can be, too…”

Faith keeps speaking, the already-bright lights of the dormitory somehow growing ever brighter.

At some point, Faith’s voice loses all meaning and Rook falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, there was a little bit of bliss in that tea. faith knows what she's doing


	5. Chapter 5

Rook wakes up slowly. He’s comfortable, warm, and it’s only the bright light persistently shining through his eyelids that draws him into wakefulness. He rolls over, intending to burrow further into his too-big bed and dive right back into rest, but there’s much less mattress than he thought and he falls straight onto a hard, wooden floor. That’s weird, considering he’s got carpet in his bedroom.

Rook opens his eyes, staggers to his feet. He blinks, disoriented.

This isn’t home.

There are maybe four other sets of bunk beds in this white-painted hall, all except one unoccupied, with shelves and dressers lining the remainder of the walls, and a large portrait of Joseph Seed adorning the farthest wall, hanging above the doors there.

“Are you all right?” the man sitting on a nearby bunk asks, looking up from his book. Rook nods, and rubs at his bleary eyes.

“That’s good to hear,” the man says. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. Faith said you needed to sleep, that it’d been a very hard day for you.”

Oh. That’s right. The mission.

Rook nods, and scoops up the blanket still half-tangled round his legs. He starts folding it, intending to tidy his bed like the others in this dorm.

“Don’t worry, I’ll do that for you,” the man says, brightly. “You’re a guest, you don’t need to worry about that stuff. You hungry?” 

Come to think of it, yeah. Rook nods, and glances down at his watch. It’s just past midday. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep here, let alone for so long. 

“Great, they’ll probably be serving lunch about now,” the man pauses, and rummages in a small bag beside him. He produces a wooden toothbrush, emblazoned with the Eden’s Gate cross. He picks up a pile of neatly folded clothes sitting beside him, and offers both to Rook. “The washrooms are over there. I hope you don’t mind, but we took the liberty of washing your uniform while you were sleeping. Your cell is charging, too.”

Rook smiles as he takes the pile from the man.

 _Thank you_ , he signs. He’s not sure if the man understands, but he at least smiles back.

The washrooms are pretty small, but they’re clean and well-maintained, and there’s enough room for Rook to get ready without any problems. He does notice, however, that although there are toothbrushes and soap and dental floss and contact lens solution and skincare products stuffed on the shelves, there’s no razors. Come to think of it, Rook hasn’t seen a single clean-shaven cultist so far.

Is he going to have to grow a beard? Rook shudders at the thought— he tried it a couple years back, and barely managed a pathetic scruff. He looks into the mirror, tries to imagine how it would look, and fails miserably. Still, he thinks, at least the scrapes on his face have scabbed over.

When he returns to the main dormitory, the man is still there, having re-made Rook’s bed in the same fashion as all the other bunks. Rook puts his used clothing on the bed, folding it roughly, before the man can tell him not to worry about it again.

“You ready? That’s great. We weren’t sure what to do with your stuff, so we let it dry and put it all in here…“ the man hands out the small bag he’d gotten the toothbrush from.

Rook takes it, and looks inside: there’s his holster and pistol and extra ammunition, his (hopefully) waterproof radio, his badge, his notebook and pen, his handcuffs, his cellphone… a lot of cheery-looking pamphlets, too.

Rook checks the cellphone first. As promised, he has a full battery, and despite Rook’s near-drowning the night before, it’s still in working order. There is one new message from Whitehorse.

 **Whitehorse (8:07 AM)** Don’t come to the office today. You’ll still be paid, don’t worry.

Rook replies with just two letters.

 **Rook (12:47 PM)** Ok

It’s a code. Whitehorse (or Hudson or Pratt, Burke hasn’t been around long enough to justify being in Rook’s contact list) is to check in daily. If Rook is all right, he’s to reply in the positive. If not— well, there are plans for that.

Rook takes the holster and straps it on, quickly checking the pistol before he puts it away. It’s been unloaded. Not ideal. He takes the rest of his equipment, getting ready in record time. Then he holds up the nearly-dry toothbrush, raising an eyebrow quizzically.

“Oh, you can keep that,” the man replies, brightly. Rook smiles, thanks him, and drops it in the bag. “I’m Simon, by the way.”

R-O-O-K, Rook spells. Simon clearly isn’t fluent, the way he has to concentrate on Rook’s hand, even as slowly as he’s signing. But he seems to know that, at least.

“Like the bird?” Simon asks.

Rook nods.

Simon smiles brightly.

“Okay, let’s get you fed!”

Outside, the compound is much nicer, less foreboding than it had been at three AM. The plants in the courtyard are bright and flourishing, the few visible cultists being largely unarmed, occupied with everyday tasks like gardening and maintenance work rather than glaring at law enforcement. There are a few glances Rook’s way, but they seem mostly friendly.

Rook forces himself to relax, to appear relaxed at least. He listens to Simon’s friendly chatter as they head toward the largest of the dormitories— this one has ‘Acedia’ written on it. Latin, maybe? Rook makes a mental note to find out. He glances backward: the dormitory they left also has ’Acedia’ written on it.

Inside, the new dormitory is pretty different to the one they left. There are some similarities, of course— the utilitarian furniture, the portrait of Joseph on one wall, the general lack of decoration. About half the building is an open-plan living room, repurposed as a cafeteria. Rook can see more bunks through an open doorway, and it looks like there are more washrooms, too.

There are more cultists here, some eating at the tables, some working in the kitchen. Joseph Seed is here, too, giving generous helpings of stew to his followers. He looks a lot cleaner and a lot better-rested than he did last night. The manic zeal that practically oozed from Joseph during the fake arrest is all but gone— there’s a reserved kind of assurance in his movements, in the way of a normal pastor. The fact he’s wearing a shirt this time certainly helps the ‘normal person’ image. He looks up as Simon and Rook enter.

“Good afternoon,” Joseph says, pleasantly. “I hope you’re feeling well.”

Rook smiles and nods with as much enthusiasm as he can muster. Cultist Rook would be honoured at the Father himself speaking to him.

“Yes, Father,” Simon says, and he sounds almost breathless in his reverence. “Good afternoon to you, too.”

“You’ve done an excellent job taking care of our guest, Simon,” Joseph says, and he really does sound grateful. He gives Simon a small smile. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Father,” Simon replies. “Praise be to you.”

“Now, I assume the two of you must be pretty hungry,” Joseph says. He gestures at the pot before him: annoyingly, it smells really good. Rook can see seasonal vegetables and some kind of meat floating in the broth. “This here is a deer stew. We’ve got bread to go with it, and I do believe Brenda will give you coffee if you ask nicely.”

One of the women in the kitchen, presumably Brenda, waves. Rook waves back.

“It looks delicious, Father,” Simon says. Rook nods in agreement, and Joseph provides each of them with a steaming bowl. Brenda follows them to their table, with an Eden’s Gate-emblazoned mug of coffee in each hand. She gives one with creamer to Simon, then turns her attention to Rook, speaking a little louder than is absolutely necessary.

“Do you take sugar? Cream?”

Rook shakes his head. He points to the black coffee she’s holding out and then gives her a thumbs-up.

“Oh, good,” Brenda says. “You boys enjoy that, okay?”

She swiftly bustles off, and Rook digs in. The stew is just as good as it looks— the meat is rich and tender, and soon Rook is warm and sated.

Simon makes small talk, the kind that only requires ‘yes’ or ‘no’ or one-word answers. It’s pretty basic stuff— is Rook a local? No, he grew up in Indiana, came to Montana for college. Does he like Montana? Yeah.

Every so often Rook spells A-N-D-Y-O-U with a raised eyebrow, and gets a little information in return. Simon is from the next county over, used to be a nurse. He still kind of is— Eden’s Gate is setting up clinics in their bunkers, and Simon is helping with that. He knows fingerspelling and a few signs ‘cause he has a Deaf cousin living near Helena, goes over for Thanksgiving every year.

Eventually, when there’s no more food and no more coffee, Joseph reappears to take their dishes. He’s holding a book, which he puts on the table as he stacks the bowls and shifts them to one hand.

“You enjoy that?” he asks.

“It was great, Father, thank you.”

_Yes._

“Now, Rook, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you’d like, though I suspect you have other matters to attend to. Simon will arrange a ride home for you, if you’d like one,” Joseph says. “And, here, before I forget…”

Joseph picks up the book with his free hand, and presents it to Rook, who takes it. It’s hardcover, bound in white, with an Eden’s Gate cross embossed on its cover. He flips it open to the first page— The Book of Joseph.

“These are my teachings,” Joseph says. “I hope you’ll find them useful.”

Rook closes the book, and smiles gratefully.

 _Thank you_.

“Now, Simon here is going to need to collect some contact details from you— it’s the same for everybody, you understand. John needs to arrange a Confession with you, and Faith wants to give you details of the Pilgrimage. And— you can shoot, right?”

 _Yes_.

Rook doesn’t elaborate. He prefers archery, but he can handle a gun decently.

“Then I suspect Jacob will want to have you at one of his retreats. I’ll ask him.” Joseph scratches his beard absent-mindedly, before smiling once more. “And though I’d love nothing more than to sit with the two of you and talk all day, I unfortunately have work to do. I hope to see you again, Rook. Simon, until next time.”

“Until next time, Father,” Simon replies, and Joseph leaves, dishes in hand.

Rook ends up leaving the compound not long after that. He’d like to stick around a little longer, poke around, find out everything there is to know about this place, but he knows he needs to take it slow. And, to be honest, he's had quite enough of Eden's Gate for one day. He gives Simon his address, his cell number, and an email address, and then he’s in a car headed back to Fall’s End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> of course joseph would be the type of pastor to literally serve his flock


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also wanted to delve a little into the theology of Eden’s Gate in this chapter, because i’m a dweeb and i actually have a degree in theology that i don’t normally get the opportunity to use. thank you ubisoft for enabling me >:) 
> 
> also, i've decided to write Fall's End as being a little bigger than in-game, because... well, it doesn't really make sense otherwise. i remember someone calculated that there would need to be at least 10 thousand people in Hope County for the game to be possible, so i'm writing as though Fall's End and the bunkers/Peggie compounds have a couple thousand residents, with the rest being spread through the rural areas.

Rook is dropped off at his house, a modest place he’s renting from Adelaide Drubman. He can see one of his neighbours peering through their window, and he ignores them. If they start gossiping, that can only be good for the plan. In a small town like this, news spreads fast. The mysterious new Deputy becoming a Peggie is going to be the hottest gossip Fall's End has heard in a good couple years. 

Rook waves goodbye to the driver, then goes inside, clears his table of used mugs, and starts unpacking everything in the bag Simon gave him. The toothbrush goes in the bathroom, his old toothbrush tossed in the trash. The pamphlets get spread out over coffee-ringed wood, the Book of Joseph beside them. He flips through his work notebook: the pages aren’t too damaged, mostly just stiff. It looks like someone’s carefully peeled all the pages away from each other so they didn’t stick, or more likely so they could read the messages. Rook’s not worried about that, though. There wasn’t anything incriminating in there. All the messages were stuff like ‘do you know how fast you were going?’ and ‘approx. 600kg of pumpkins missing, culprit not seen, requested cctv footage’. The pen still works, which is a nice surprise

Rook picks up a particularly cheery-looking pamphlet, entitled ’THE COLLAPSE IS NIGH— BUT WE’LL RISE AGAIN’, and starts skimming it. It’s a crash course in the core beliefs of Eden’s Gate: they’re vaguely Baptist, though there’s some stuff drawn from other denominations, and some other stuff that’s outright heresy, if Rook remembers his Sunday School right. There’s a lot on confessing and atoning for sins, though what they mean by ‘atoning’ is left vague. The oncoming apocalypse is a very real, very present threat that believers must actively work to survive, rather than a distant heavenly homecoming for the devout.

The most obviously heretical thing is the reverence given to Joseph Seed— he’s mentioned more often than Jesus, referred to as a messianic figure, a saviour, almost God-like if the words ‘PRAISE BE TO THE FATHER’ under his photo are any indication. Rook shudders. Yeah, he can see it— see how Joseph Seed, with all his wildly energetic preaching and his gentle pastoral care could raise himself to near-divinity among his followers.

Rook moves to the next pamphlet, which outlines the basic rules cultists are expected to follow. Turns out there is a dress code: women must keep long hair, while men must grow beards. Exactly what Rook was hoping to avoid. Ugh. He scratches at his stubble, grimacing.

Wearing the Eden’s Gate cross is highly encouraged, especially if it’s a visible tattoo. It’s a pretty textbook way of drawing your followers close to each other, and simultaneously repelling outsiders from them. Plain, practical clothes are encouraged, so as to keep away from vanity and to be closer to God. Rook stifles a laugh. That rule is something John Seed has clearly never heard of, with his silk shirts and obnoxiously-patterned coat. And Faith Seed is toeing the line with her white lace and endless flowers.

The other rules are pretty straightforward. No fornication or pornography, though there’s no mention of actually jerking off. No gossiping or lying or rumours. Keeping the Sabbath is mandatory, and so is getting involved with church life: whether it’s arranging flowers for services at Eden’s Convent, or volunteering to serve the Heralds and Father, or just attending weekly sermons. There’s even a page-long list of possible duties an unsuspecting cultist might have.

Alcohol and drugs are forbidden, but communion wine is okay, and so is something called ‘the Bliss’. Rook considers the little pouch of ‘oregano’ he keeps in his not-work-jacket. Maybe he’ll start leaving that at home. He eyes up the bottle of local whiskey that’s sitting on top of his fridge, the one the Department gave him as a welcome gift. He started drinking it on his birthday, but hasn’t had a good enough excuse to finish it.

Rook pulls his blinds down, gets a glass and fills it with ice. If joining a cult isn’t a good enough excuse, then nothing will ever be, he decides. And it’s not like he can just keep the whiskey around if he’s trying to convey the image of a good cult member. He brings the bottle to the table, and starts drinking as he moves onto the next pamphlet, a who’s who of Eden’s Gate.

First and foremost is the Father. Joseph Seed’s biography takes up two whole pages, not including the portrait photograph of him dressed in his Sunday best, a kind smile on his lips. Next comes John, with one page, and Jacob, also with one page. Faith Seed is last, her biography barely covering a half-page, the rest of the writing urging the reader to read their Book of Joseph and join Eden’s Gate. Her photo is also different from the others— the lighting and background suggest that this was taken at a different time and place from the brothers.

Tiny letters on the front page indicate that this is the fifth edition. Rook makes a mental note to look for the previous editions. Maybe there were other heralds in Faith’s place, once upon a time. If so, that’s a potential hook, potential leverage.

Rook looks at the photos of the Heralds, one by one.

John’s photo is bright. He’s casually standing, arms crossed, in the kind of way that’s definitely carefully-planned and carefully-posed. The camera angle, the slight tilt of his head, the entire image is created to make John look as good as possible. It’s clever, and incredibly vain. Rook's pretty sure John Seed has a streak of pride the size of Texas. He might be able to use that— make out like John is his idol, play on his narcissism. Might be worth a shot. He moves on to the next picture.

Jacob is standing, wrists crossed at his belt, glaring at the camera. There’s nothing fancy here. Nothing hidden, no deeper meaning. Jacob is the protector of Eden’s Gate, like the text on the next page proclaims. His skin is covered in burns, which he apparently got from protecting Joseph and John as children. So whatever else Jacob may be, he takes his role very seriously. He’s probably the most dangerous one to try to get close to. So maybe Rook won’t try.

Faith’s picture is simultaneously suggestive— dark, heavy-lidded eyes, a half-pout on her lips— and pure— hands clasped demurely around a bunch of flowers, knees pressed together chastely. She’s beautiful, exaggerating her features with a light touch of makeup: a little eyeliner, some kind of lip gloss, Rook’s not sure what else. Unlike the brothers, her stance is submissive, head slightly bowed.She’s trying to convey several images at once: an angelic, sinless creature, and also an alluring, sensual siren. Rook can kind of see that— if he were straight, then maybe he’d see it more. But he’s sure of one thing: Faith Seed is full of contradictions, and that makes her maybe the most potentially useful Herald.

So... a plan.

Rook needs to figure out what the Heralds need, and present them with it. Be the best living tool they could ask for. Then, once he's close enough and trusted enough, he can start snooping.

Joseph said that Rook would need to confess to John. He should take that opportunity to make sure that John knows that Cultist Rook is in awe of him, and try to use that to get close enough to figure out what John actually wants. But doing that without speaking is going to be hard. Faith will be easier, if she's personally at the Pilgrimage. All he'd need to do is look enraptured at her presence, keep smiling and nodding and whatever else it is she asks of him. If he plays that up well enough, she'll think of him as a useful tool in no time, and then he'll be close enough to consider his next move.

Jacob, though... Jacob is going to be hard. He's difficult to read. The most obvious first step would be to attend one of the retreats Joseph mentioned, do everything he can to impress Jacob. But beyond that... well, who knows? Jacob might not even have any desires beyond protecting his family. 

Rook takes another sip of whiskey as he thinks. 

It’s good stuff, smooth and almost sweet as it hits his tongue. He glances at his phone.

There’s a good chance the Peggies tried to go through it while he was asleep. They wouldn’t have found anything to suggest he’s anything other than he appears. Rook’s not a particularly social person, so most of his messages are from Hudson, Pratt or Whitehorse. He emails his mother every couple of weeks, and a couple friends from college. His internet history consists mostly of browsing hunting, hiking and camping gear on Amazon, and a lot more gay porn than he would ever publicly admit to watching. Only one of those things might cause problems, and Rook is willing to bet he can twist it into an advantage if he’s pressed.

Rook checks his phone again. There’s another message from Whitehorse.

 **Whitehorse (16:18 PM)** Pratt thinks we should get pizza tomorrow. You in?

Whitehorse wants to meet at 8-Bit. It’s kind of soon, but considering that Rook’s going to get fake-suspended tomorrow, there won’t be a whole lot of time to debrief at the station.

 **Rook (16:33 PM)** Yes :)

The reply comes a minute later.

 **Whitehorse (16:34 PM)** Good to hear. See you tomorrow morning.

Rook smiles, and pours himself another measure.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Rook arrives at the Sheriff’s Office in Fall’s End with five minutes to spare, only slightly hungover. There are a few people in the reception area, a couple of whom he recognises. Hurk Drubman Sr. and his long-suffering son are in one corner, Drubman Sr. complaining loudly about “incompetent police” while Drubman Jr. tries to cheer up the dour atmosphere by offsetting his old man’s complaints:

“Oh, they ain’t that bad”, he says. “We only been here ten minutes”. 

The others are residents Rook has seen around, but doesn’t really know anything of. There’s a dark-haired woman he’s seen a couple times in the Spread Eagle, maybe one of Mary May’s friends. A man he’s pretty sure lives up in the Whitetails. A girl who might work at the Marina. 

 _Hello_ , Rook signs to the receptionist, a nice middle-aged lady named Linda. She smiles and signs back, and Rook walks through into the open-plan office. Hudson is there already, while Pratt isn’t— he’s covering the night shift this week, according to the rota on the wall.

Rook shrugs his jacket off, dropping it over his chair, and signs hello to Hudson, who returns his greetings, looking relieved to see him alive and well. Just as they’d rehearsed, Hudson doesn’t say anything to Rook except for a sombre “Whitehorse wants to see you.” Sound carries pretty far in this rickety old building, and Eden’s Gate have ears everywhere. 

Burke is also in Whitehorse’s office, and he gives Rook a nod when he enters. Rook leaves the office door ajar so the sound of their conversation can carry further, into the reception. Whitehorse greets him with a signed _hello_ , and Rook sits in one of the chairs in front of the desk.

“Look, Rook…” Whitehorse begins the spiel they’d agreed upon a few days before, a little louder than he really needs to. “You know I like you. I respect you. But what happened the other night was unacceptable.”

 _You were about to make a huge mistake_ , Rook signs, just in case anybody can see them. _You were going to arrest my prophet. What else could I do? I didn’t hurt anybody._

“But you still interefered with an active investigation,” Whitehorse says. “Hell— we had a federal warrant. You want to know what Burke could do to you for the shit you just pulled?”

“It’s a lot,” Burke says. “I could do a lot to you.”

“He won’t— we made an agreement,” Whitehorse says. “Instead, we’re going to suspend you while we conduct our investigation. Don’t worry, you’ll still be paid. But I will need your badge and your gun.”

 _That's not fair!_  Rook signs frantically, nearly hitting Burke’s shoulder. _I trusted you!_

“Rook, please calm down. It’s only going to be a couple of weeks— we just need to finish our investigation, and then we’ll be happy to have you back.”

“Assuming you don’t interfere any further,” Burke corrects.

“Assuming you don’t interfere any further,” Whitehorse concedes.

Rook doesn't move for a moment, stares at the table as he calls to mind every shitty memory he has, willing his eyes to water. He concentrates on memories of being harassed by bullies in school, of the disappointment in his mom’s eyes when he came out, of standing silently at Grandpa’s funeral, of the pitying look everybody gives him when they find out that he can’t speak. It has to look genuine when he storms out of the office, so he waits until he can feel the tears prickling at his eyes, can feel his face getting hot.

 _Fine_ , he signs, sharply, and he rises. He unstraps his holster, and tosses his unloaded gun onto the desk, where it’s swiftly followed by his badge. God, he hopes this mission is worth it. Whitehorse was the only Sheriff in the whole fucking state to consider Rook’s application. He wants his badge back already.

Hudson plays her part well when he stalks by her desk on the way to pick up his jacket and satchel.

“Rook— what’s wrong?” she asks, loudly. Rook ignores her, as rehearsed, and instead snatches his belongings, tipping over his desk chair, and leaves, slamming the door behind him.

The people in the waiting room give Rook wide-eyed stares and furtive glances. Which means they heard everything. Good.

“Rook, hon, are you all right?” Linda asks, as he makes to stride past her. Rook stops, wipes his eyes for good effect.

 _They suspended me_ , he signs. And then, at the confusion in Linda’s eyes, he grabs a piece of paper she’s holding and scribbles with the pen in his shirt pocket: ‘They suspended me for being part of Eden’s Gate.’

Linda looks up at him, shock on her face.

“…You’re part of Eden’s Gate?”

Rook grits his teeth, throws his hands in the air in frustration, and then leaves the station, slamming the door as hard as he can behind him. He goes straight back to his truck, throws his stuff on the passenger seat, and drives away, slightly too quickly and none too steady. He parks a couple streets away, and hunches over the steering wheel as though he’s furious, and thinks very hard about his next move.

Cultist Rook, at this point, would be little more than a seething ball of impotent rage. What would a man who’s been unjustly suspended do? The first answer that comes to mind is getting trashed in the Spread Eagle, or buying half the stock in the local liquor store. Neither of which a Peggie could do.

There’s a shooting range up in the Whitetails where he might be able to blow off some steam. To be honest, Rook really doesn’t feel like making the trek up there, not dehydrated and mildly queasy as he is. There are a couple good hunting spots in the hills, but again— he’s just hungover enough that the thought of spending a couple hours painstakingly hunting prey through the woods makes his head spin.

What else could he do?

Oh. He could go fishing. There are plenty of spots nearby. It’s relaxing, and he’ll be spending most of his time waiting for a fish to bite. He can get rehydrated and wait for the last dregs of the hangover to pass. And at the end of it, he’ll have some fish he can either sell or eat himself for dinner.

Rook heads home, picks up his fishing gear and stuffs a few granola bars into his pockets. He grabs a cooler, shoves some ice into it, and throws some water bottles in there too. He stops off at the general store for bait, and heads over to the Lamb of God sacristry. Nobody’s ever there, not since old Father Brian closed down the church and moved away. 

Rook settles down into a camp chair he’d left here a while back, and looks out over the clear waters of the river, to the rolling hills rising from the banks, and the tall trees dotted over the picturesque landscape. It’s beautiful here in Hope County. Indiana had mostly been corn fields and flat plains, and Missoula had been a city— a nice city, but a city all the same. Patchy cell reception and a slow wi-fi network are a small price to pay for these kinds of views.

The one good thing about this whole Eden’s Gate mess is that now Rook’s going to have more time to enjoy the beauty of Hope County, instead of spending all his time cooped up in the office. And, speaking of Eden’s Gate, Rook wonders if word of his conversion and his suspension has spread through town yet.

Drubman Sr. is absolutely going to mouth off to anybody that will listen, but from what Rook’s seen, most of Hope County’s residents tend to tune him out. Drubman Jr. is likely to talk as well, and someone’s going to pay attention— he’s much more well-liked in the community, even if most people think of him as simple-minded. And Linda? Oh, Linda. Linda is about fifty percent of the Fall’s End rumour mill. By the time Linda gets home tonight, she’ll have told just about everybody she’s met about the big argument betwixt Sheriff Whitehorse and Deputy Rook. Which means that by Sunday, most of the town is going to know he’s a Peggie. Which is exactly what Whitehorse planned.

Rook nods to himself, and attaches a worm to his lure.

So far, so good.

And then his cellphone starts ringing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have never ever fished before, and i do believe it shows


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter contains more theology, sorry not sorry. also, grossly inaccurate depictions of fishing. honestly, the closest i have ever gotten to fishing is playing ffxv and far cry. 
> 
> and also: from next week, updates are going to most likely be much less frequent. this is because i just started college again and my workload is going to be very heavy from then on. please rest assured that i’m still going to write as often as i can— this is my stress relief, and i really want to get to the end of this story.

Generally, people don’t call Rook. There are exceptions, of course— he has a simple radio response system set up with Whitehorse and the others, using morse numbers and a couple letters. There are sometimes cold-calling telemarketers, who quickly get freaked out by the sound of his breathing. But most people realise very quickly that attempting to hold a phone conversation with Rook is futile.

Rook stares at his cellphone for a full ten seconds before finally swiping to accept the call.

“Hello?” a familiar voice asks. It’s a man. He sounds tired, his voice rough, speech very slightly slurred. “Is this Rook?”

There’s a half-second pause and a soft ‘ugh’ as the speaker presumably realises that calling a man who cannot speak back is a terrible idea.

“This is John Seed, from Eden’s Gate. I’m calling to let you know that I’ve cleared my schedule for Saturday, so we’ll do your Confession then. Come to my ranch at eight in the morning, and we’ll head up to my Gate from there. Make sure you’re on time, because Confession will take the entire day. I assume you’ll be able to make it— if not, text me at this number.”

John hangs up without bothering to say goodbye.

Rook shakes his head, a grin on his lips. It looks like his conversion has ruffled a few feathers within Eden’s Gate, too. John Seed, infamous in Hope County for his intelligence and cunning, must be pretty overworked if he straight up forgot that Rook is mute. And that must mean that there's more going on at the Project than Rook anticipated.

Rook casts his line, and leans back in his chair. He’s no fool. He skimmed through Revelations last night, after running out of leaflets to peruse. The apocalypse is supposed to be preceded by a series of seals being opened by the four horsemen, insofar as Rook can make out. The Lamb— a metaphor for Jesus, if he remembers Sunday School right— is supposed to open the first one. There’s nothing that really resembles what happened at Joseph’s compound, though.

Rook remembers Joseph quoting chapter six, verse eight at the church, lost in his religious ecstasy: “ And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.” Which is only half the verse. The rest reads “And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth."

The obvious connotation is that Whitehorse is the pale horse or its rider. That would make either Burke or Rook the Hell that follows. But that doesn’t really fit the situation either. Even if Rook had tried to arrest Joseph, that’s very different from the Sheriff’s Department instigating an orgy of violence and death. Unless that somehow refers to the Peggies themselves going nutso over Joseph’s arrest. But that doesn’t make sense either.

Rook sighs, and shifts in his chair. He’s tempted to shrug, and brush this off as Joseph just being crazy. But that’s doing him, and Eden’s Gate as a whole, a massive disservice: the Peggies may believe some crazy shit, but they are rational people underneath all the crazy, and there is some kind of internal logic to their beliefs.

It’s like with Zip Kupka— his conspiracy theories make no sense at first glance (and second, and third, and fourth, for that matter). Rook doesn’t know a whole lot about Kupka’s past— just a vague notion that his parents worked all their lives and still died broke— but having spent many a drunken evening listening to him ramble incessantly in the Spread Eagle, it seems to Rook that all his conspiracies have a similar root in that he seems to be searching for an answer as to why life is so damned unfair to ordinary people.

There’s something like that with Eden’s Gate. Some kind of shared need for understanding. And it’s all tied to Revelations: the world is such an awful place because it’s ending.

Maybe, Rook thinks, as his fishing line jerks taut, the Eden’s Gate inner circle are being run ragged because it isn’t ending. Maybe they knew that Joseph would be arrested— Joseph said, didn’t he, that they had “prepared for this”? Maybe that was supposed to be the beginning of the end. And now that Rook has joined them instead of instigating the apocalypse…

Rook pulls against the struggling fish, reeling quickly as it tires. He can imagine it now: Joseph in a frantic state of near-constant prayer, John exhausted by the strain of having to run the cult in his brother’s stead. He’s not sure about the others, but they’re probably having a hard time too.

The fish is pulled from the water, and Rook scrambles to grab it before it tears its lip from the hook and flops back into the water. It wriggles, cool and slick in his hands, for several long minutes before finally going still. It’s a decent-sized trout, and it’s swiftly unhooked and tossed into the cooler. Then Rook baits his lure again, and re-casts, settling back into the chair.

Saturday is the day after tomorrow. Even assuming that Rook’s conjecture is just that— conjecture— that seems really fast. He literally joined the cult fewer than two days ago. He wonders if any other converts have their Confession after being members of the cult for such a short amount of time. It’s not likely, but who knows?

Rook fishes for several long hours, sipping cool water, taking an occasional Advil. He gets up and stretches every now and again, switches out his fishing rod for something a little more robust when he fails to catch a particularly huge fish. He does his best to relax, ignoring the feeling of dread in his stomach: the residents of Hope County don’t much like Peggies. And though it’s for a good reason, Rook isn’t looking forward to being disliked by most of the populace.

Rook gets a check-in text from Hudson this time, not Whitehorse.

 **Hudson (14:47 PM):** Hey, you seemed really mad earlier. I heard what happened from Whitehorse.Are you okay?

Rook considers his reply. It needs to carry the correct coded message, while seeming natural if someone were to swipe through his phone.

 **Rook (14:49 PM):** As okay as I can be, considering. Thanks.

The sun’s dipped behind the horizon when he decides to pack in for the day. Whitehorse didn’t specify a time, but Rook knows Whitehorse usually gets out of the office around six, and he’ll probably head over to 8-Bit pretty soon after. If Rook is early, that just means he has time to write a statement, maybe take some pictures of the partially-healed scrapes on his face.

Rook stops off at Rae-Rae’s on his way to 8-Bit, where he’s able to barter some of his fish for pumpkins. That’s the good thing about rural places like this— bartering. Rae-Rae’s pretty happy to see him, and lets him pet Boomer for a good couple minutes, which means she probably hasn’t been to Fall’s End yet. Afterward, Rook stops off at the Gardenview Packing Facility just down the road, and trades most of the rest of his catch for apples.

Rook parks a little way up the road from 8-Bit, near the electricity pylons, in case he’s being watched. He’s probably not, but it can’t hurt to be safe. He can always claim to be hiking or star-gazing if someone asks.

Rook enters 8-Bit through the back door. The lights are already on inside, blackout screens already fixed to the windows. It’s cleaner than he remembers, the remaining furniture mostly stacked neatly by the walls. There’s a couple tables littered with boxes and papers in the main bar area, and Pratt’s standing on the elevated dining area, pinning a map of Hope County to a free-standing board. He glances round at the sound of Rook’s footsteps.

“Hey,” Pratt says, a smile curling at his mouth. “You’re not dead yet.”

 _Not yet_ , Rook signs. _There’s still time._

It takes a moment for Pratt to process: he’s nowhere near fluent, not like Whitehorse is. But he knows enough, and they’ve got a shared sense of humour, and after a second Pratt snorts with laughter, and turns back to his work.

“Help me with this?” he calls, and Rook obliges, holding the paper in place so that Pratt can pin it.

It’s not long before Whitehorse arrives, Burke with him. Burke nods hello, and starts setting up a small video camera and tripod, presumably to record Rook’s testimony.

 _You good?_ Whitehorse signs to Rook. He’s the type of man to always be concerned about the wellbeing of his subordinates. It’s nice.

 _Yes, I am_ , Rook replies. _Thank you_.

“Hudson isn’t coming tonight,” Whitehorse says. “She’s at the station with Nancy, covering until we finish here. Pratt’s on night shift today. It’s going to be tough while you’re away.”

“You’d better be paying me for all this overtime,” Pratt replies, grinning impishly.

 _You’d better not replace me_ , Rook signs, mock-pouting.

Whitehorse sighs, very loudly, and ushers them to the table, where they start debriefing. It takes a long time to relay the events of the other night, and the time that’s passed since then. Whitehorse needs to interpret for Rook, because Pratt’s sign knowledge is incredibly patchy at best, and Burke doesn’t know any at all. And since Burke insists on writing the statement at the same time, ostensibly to save time, he stops the debriefing every now and again to ask questions and request clarification. Which quickly devolves into arguing that Rook remembered or interpreted something wrong.

“You’re sure John was trying to kill you?” Burke asks. “He wasn’t just holding you down?”

 _Yes_ , Rook replies. _Well, I think so._

“You said that he seemed surprised that you were fighting back.”

_He had his hand around my throat._

“But he wasn’t squeezing?”

_I guess not. But there’s no other reason to do that._

“He said he was trying to get all the sin out, right? So why would he try to kill you? It sounds like it was a poorly-judged attempt to hold you under the water.”

_Maybe, but I still disagree._

Burke sighs, but he allows the conversation to move on. Pratt doesn’t help much, either. He keeps making smartass comments, derailing the topic.

“Wait, wait— you willingly ate it? Joseph Seed, the creepiest man alive, offered you food and you willingly ate it? You know it was probably people, right?”

Rook sighs.

_I was hungry. And I couldn’t refuse him there._

“I don’t think they eat people,” Burke says, seriously. “Except maybe for Jacob. He’s definitely a cannibal.”

“John’s got to be one too— you ever saw that show? With the Dutch guy? Hannibal? You know those cannibals are all dressed up nice and fancy.”

“They’re not cannibals,” Whitehorse says, sounding very tired.

“That’s what you think. See, I’ve read Jacob’s military personnel file,” Burke sounds far too smug. “He’s a cannibal.”

“Oh, that’s nasty,” Pratt grimaces. “I was joking, but that’s legitimately horrible. Please tell me that's not true.”

 _Can we move on?_ Rook signs, sighing in impatience. He doesn’t know if Burke is joking— he hopes so— and honestly he doesn’t want to know. It's been a long day, and he's tired.

The clock ticks onward, and it’s well after nine when Pratt’s cellphone rings. He swears, answers, winces, and sheepishly turns to Whitehorse.

“It’s Hudson. She wants to go home.”

Whitehorse sighs.

“So do I,” he mutters. Then, speaking in his normal authoritative manner, he addresses Pratt. “You go back to the station. We’re almost done here.”

Pratt doesn’t look happy, but he obeys, making Whitehorse promise to tell him what happened next. Once the door has shut, Whitehorse turns to Rook again.

“So John called you earlier?”

_Yes. I think he was tired, and he forgot that I can’t speak._

“What an idiot,” Burke shakes his head, before Whitehorse can interpret. “Trying to call a mute man.”

“He’s the best lawyer ever produced by Georgia, and quite possibly the entire country,” Whitehorse says. “He’s entitled to make a mistake while exhausted.”

“Let’s hope he makes a couple more,” is all Burke says, leaning back in his chair. Whitehorse ignores him, and returns his attention to Rook.

“So. Saturday. I think your plan so far is good. Suck up to John as much as you can—“

“But don’t make it obvious,” Burke interjects.

“—but don’t make it obvious,” Whitehorse agrees. “We’ll check in during the evening, if Confession takes as long as John thinks. We’ll meet here the next day— do you know when Eden’s Gate Sunday services are?”

 _I was planning to go to the sunrise service at the Convent,_ Rook signs.

“Then we’ll meet here again after that,” Whitehorse says. “Stay safe, Rook.”

 _You too, Sheriff,_ Rook replies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this ended up a lot longer than i anticipated. i was going to end it when rook stops fishing, but i felt that not enough had happened in the chapter to justify that. also: i know that this Pratt is different to fandom's general opinion of him, but please bear with me. In this timeline, he hasn't been broken by Jacob. He's just a regular twenty-something guy who (in-game) is described as kind of an asshole. 
> 
> also the 'Dutch guy' Pratt rambles about is Danish actor Mads Mikkelsen. I'm told that's a frequent mistake that non-Europeans make, so i incuded it here.


	9. Chapter 9

Friday is quiet. Rook spends an extra couple hours in bed, but doesn’t feel too rested. He can't help but be nervous about what Saturday will bring. He can remember Joseph Seed’s serene words: “if he is (a wolf), then John will surely draw a confession from him”.

Rook’s heard before that John Seed is a suave bastard, that he’s got a silver tongue that would make God himself weep. He’d heard that John Seed is cruel— he knows a couple stories about good locals being driven out of their businesses and homes by John’s never-ceasing legal battles, been personally present while honest, decent men and women cry in the office to Whitehorse that "surely this ain't legal". (And every time, every fucking time, somehow it had been.)

Rook knows what confession is, of course. It’s that thing Catholics do to get absolved of sin. They sit in confessionals and talk to an unseen priest about the bad stuff they’ve done, and then they’re forgiven. That's nothing to be nervous about. But then, Rook had thought he knew what a baptism was— and that was pretty different to John’s crazy waterboarding bullshit.

Rook goes hunting in the Henbane region, recurve bow in hand. Hiking the trails, tracking potential prey... even if he doesn't catch anything, hunting always helps to calm him down. He tries not to dwell, but he can’t help but speculate as he treads softly, crouches, aims at a deer resting with its friends.

If the Cleansing is anything to go by, then the Eden’s Gate version of confession is probably just a really extreme version of what a normal Christian might do. If they use drugs to make him talk— no, they wouldn’t, that would go against their cheery little rules… And they probably wouldn’t use torture (not that he thinks they wouldn’t out of principle, Rook’s seen that video of Joseph calmly gouging some poor fucker’s eyes out) because their flock would never willingly join up if subjected to that.

Rook holds his breath for a moment, lets the arrow fly. It misses, and the deer rise as one, fleeing before he can nock another arrow. He sighs, angrily, and tries and fails to find the arrow he fucked up with. He’s too tense for this. Should have brought his gun instead.

Rook heads back to his truck, and starts thinking again on his return journey to Fall’s End.

Maybe he’ll just have to narrate his entire fucking life to John. Maybe that’s why it takes so long. A whole day to admit every little bad word and bad thought and bad deed. That would fit John’s silver-tongued-snake thing. And then, once you've been broken down and shamed for your humanity, you get to atone (whatever that means for the Peggies) and you get built back up as something holy. Maybe that's what it is. It seems likely, anyway.

Rook stops at the grocery store for flour— he needs to do something with the apples, or they’ll rot, and he needs to do something with his hands, or he'll drive himself crazy. He can make apple pie, and use the scraps for cider or— no, he can’t. No alcohol. He’ll bury the scraps in the yard instead, hope a tree grows. He picks up some coffee creamer too, ‘cause he’s nearly out, and some laundry detergent, and he tries to ignore the suspicious look the shopkeeper gives him.

“Heard you was one of those Peggies now,” the shopkeeper says, packing the items in a brown bag as he punches numbers into the till.

Rook sighs, and nods.

“Seventeen eighty-five,” the shopkeeper says, and Rook is pretty sure that’s too high. He didn’t check the prices though, and he’s always been bad at calculating sales tax, so he doesn’t argue, just hands the money over.

Pratt checks in that afternoon, while Rook is busy peeling and slicing apples.

 **Pratt (16:02)** Hey, do you want to get really high and start setting off fireworks at the cattle farm? Last time I arrested Sharky Bowshaw, he told me it’s real good fun :)

Rook nearly slices his thumb open. That can’t seriously be the check-in, can it?

 **Pratt (16:03)** That was a joke, I promise.

 **Pratt (16:05)** Seriously though, hunting season is coming up and I think we should go on a trip. Me with my rifle, you with your bow, we’ll be unstoppable. You up for that? No getting high at the cattle farm, I promise :)

Rook rolls his eyes. Pratt’s such a fucking joker.

 **Rook (16:06)** Yeah, sounds great. The hunting, I mean.

By the time Saturday morning rolls around, Rook’s got three apple pies sitting on his counter, a thermos of coffee in his satchel, and a night of fitful sleep behind him.

The roads are even quieter than normal when he drives over to the Seed Ranch, which holds very little resemblance to the name. It’s owned by a member of the Seed family, sure, but the ranch is actually what appears to be a multi-million-dollar mansion with a fancy garden and— for some reason— a freestanding wooden tower, instead of the pastures and animals Rook had expected. There were corn fields and greenhouses along the hideously long driveway, but Rook doesn’t think that any member of the Seed family has so much as stepped foot in those places.

John Seed is waiting for Rook by the front door, sharply-dressed and neatly groomed. He’s smoking, but hastily stubs out his cigarette when he sees Rook park his truck nearby.

“Good to see you made it,” John says, when Rook gets out of his truck and heads over. John kicks the cigarette stub away as he quickly plasters a friendly smile to his face. “We’re going to the hangar— driving to the Gate is very time-consuming, and I’d rather have this over with as quickly as possible. I’m sure you agree.”

John leads him to a two-storey building that Rook had assumed was some kind of annexe or studio. In the flat field beyond that, there are a number of small planes parked on the grass, most of them partially covered by tarps.

“Sorry for the mess,” John says apologetically as he opens the shutter door. “We’re still working on getting a second airstrip. Rye won’t sell to us, and Lansdowne’s ownership is… complicated.”

Rook’s going to need a closer look at those planes. He can’t see well enough from here if they’re fitted with weapons, or if this is just a matter of logistics and transport. A cult with its own airline is weird but probably harmless, a cult with its own air force is extremely dangerous.

There’s one plane sitting in the hangar, gleaming and polished. It’s black, the Eden’s Gate cross painted delicately onto its wings in white. This one doesn’t seem to have any weaponry attached, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that the others don’t. Rook knows that it’s pretty easy to modify these old-style planes.

“Her name is Affirmation,” John says, a hint of pride in his voice. He looks at Rook expectantly. “You ever flown before?”

Rook nods. He’s flown once, to Montana when he started college.

“In a plane like this?”

Rook shakes his head. It’d been a low-budget commercial flight. John grins, and pats the nose of the plane.

“You’re in for a real treat today,” he says. “As it happens, I’m the best pilot in Hope County. Hop in the back, and put the headset on.”

Rook climbs into the backseat with only a little difficulty— the footholds are painted the same dark colour as the rest of the plane. It’s much more comfortable than the backseat of a souped-up cropduster should be— where the interior isn’t glass, it’s clean, soft leather, with a thick carpet on the floor. The seat is padded luxuriously, and there’s a lot more leg room than it looks like there should be from the outside. Rook closes the door behind him, and there’s a quiet, comforting click.

The headset John mentioned is hanging on the back of the pilot’s chair, so Rook puts it on, adjusting it quickly. It feels lighter than the headsets he uses at the Sheriff’s Office, but it also seems newer and more expensive: there’s no chipped enamel, and the softness of the earphones are due to make instead of wear.

John settles himself into the pilot’s chair, and puts his own headset on. After a moment, the audio crackles to life, and John’s voice is clear in Rook’s ears.

“Get yourself buckled in. Don’t forget to do the parachute straps too— those are the green ones. You won’t need it, but if something does go wrong, pull the red cord on the right and you’ll be ejected. The parachute will open automatically. Tap twice on the window when you’ve done that.”

Rook obeys, and taps the window twice. The engine rumbles to life a moment later, and John pulls out onto the field, and then the runway. They start slow, but within seconds the plane is rocketing down the runway, Rook tensing at every jolt, and then—

Then they’re in the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case you're wondering, John had one of his followers take the weapons off Affirmation and then polish it up good


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was supposed to be longer, going into the confession itself, but it’s really hard to write stuff like torture and I’ve been having a hard time getting it done. I have a bunch of stuff for after these chapters done, like the pilgrimage with Faith and some stuff with Jacob, so those will be faster. Please bear with me! Thank you for all the support so far! :)

The runway falls away, Holland Valley revealing itself as they rise. Rook can see the crop circles at the Bradbury farm, the none-too-distant buildings of Fall’s End— the spire of the Catholic church gleams white in the early morning light. The plane tilts smoothly to the left, so smoothly that Rook almost doesn’t notice until Fall’s End has dropped out of sight, replaced by the endless blue and white of the sky. 

John steers them along the mountains to the southwest, and if Rook cranes his neck to peer down, he can see the Lamb of God and the hangars at Rye Aviation. And, further out, that stupid statue of Joseph they built on the Henbane rises above the early morning mist.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” John asks. Rook nods, even though John can’t see him. John keeps speaking, so he probably didn’t expect an answer. “Back in Georgia, there weren’t any mountains like this. I have to say, Joseph chose well…”

The locals disagree, Rook thinks, as John rambles about the beauty of Montana: it’s so nice here despite the cold and the lack of peach trees and he’s so glad he doesn’t have to constantly have the air conditioning on up north, do you know how hard it is to get sweat stains out of silk? John doesn’t either, but apparently his old dry-cleaners had a hell of a time with it.

They’re past the Lamb of God now. If Rook had to guess, he’d say that John’s bringing them up to the old nuclear silo in the mountains— they’re flying low, barely above the trees on the rocky slopes, and there’s nothing else in this direction, save a couple of cabins dotted around.

Rook is proven right a minute later, when John skims the treeline, clearly intending to land on a flat patch of grass near the old silo.

“—can’t get a simple glass of sweet tea right. Oh— we’re here. Hang on, this is going to be a little rough.”

The plane lands with an unpleasant jolt that feels far too much like crashing for Rook’s liking, but it’s otherwise unremarkable. The plane slows dramatically once landed, and John drives it in a slow half-circle, so they’re facing the way they came before rolling to a complete stop. John unbuckles himself and climbs out, so Rook follows suit. The air up on the mountainside is chilly, moreso than at the ranch, and he shivers as John leads the way to the silo entrance through a small parking lot filled with trucks and armed cultists standing guard.

“Six minutes,” John says, checking his watch. It’s a shiny Rolex, probably more expensive than all of Rook’s belongings put together. “Good timing. Much faster than trying to drive up all those hills.”

Rook nods. John’s clearly showing off. It’s probably best to go along with his boasting. Inside the Gate, several storeys underground, they’re greeted by eager-to-please assistants.

“Good morning, Herald John!” one man calls, cheerfully scribbling on a clipboard as he checks lightbulbs in one of the corridors.

“Morning, Richard,” John replies, easily.

“Hello,” one woman says, nodding her head cordially as she carries a box of little silver packets up a short flight of steps. Rook signs back to her, politely.

“Hi,” John replies. Rook can hear the smile in his voice.

John leads them further and further into the bunker, endless identical corridors, bunks lining the walls, huge containers and boxes stored in the halls.

“We’re still working on getting this place up and running,” John explains. “Please excuse the mess.”

Rook doesn’t answer. He’s too busy trying to mentally form a map of this place. His stomach sinks as he realises that he can’t. If he needed to, he wouldn’t be able to escape this place. He’ll need more time for that.

Rook spots a couple of rooms with more bunks, and barred doors. What are those for? He can’t stop and examine them, though— John’s walking fast.

They head down another flight of stairs, and through a control room. Then there’s another flight of stairs, and Rook can smell something. It’s mostly hidden by bleach, but there’s something that puts him on edge. Then it hits him: it’s blood. But not only that. There’s shit and vomit and urine under the strong chlorine.

What the hell has John been doing down here?

John leads him into a room dimly-lit with yellow and red bulbs. There’s a portrait of Joseph on the wall, and a couple racks of tools: hacksaws, hammers, and various forms of hardware. There’s a video camera in one corner, facing the room, red recording light on. John gestures to a chair in the middle of the room, and Rook sits down. 

“So,” John begins, producing a notebook and a pen, offering them to Rook. “Confession. The essential second step to joining the Father’s flock. What do you understand by that?”

Rook thinks for a moment, and then writes: ‘It’s a Catholic thing. You admit your sins and you are forgiven.’

John looks at the paper, reads Rook’s words aloud, and nods.

“Good, that’s the basics. But do you understand what I mean by ‘confession’ or ‘atonement’? Like, what’s going to happen physically? What we’ll be doing here today?”

Rook hesitates. No, he doesn’t. He shakes his head, obediently.

“Right,” John says, and he clears his throat. “So, everybody struggles with sin. I do, you do, even the Father does. I expect you’ve seen the words carved in his skin?”

Rook shakes his head.

“That’s part of atonement. Once you’ve confessed, you must mark yourself, as a reminder. Most people opt for tattoos—“ John holds up one tattooed hand as an example, eight latin words inked in black near his knuckles. “— but that’s a topic for later. In any case, sin takes us further from God and from salvation. So we must cleanse our souls— like I did for you— and we must confess to our sins and atone for them. Now, confession is pretty easy. In private, you tell me about every terrible thing you’ve sai—“ John coughs, “—that you’ve thought and done. But sometimes we aren’t honest with ourselves. So we must use some unpleasant methods to ensure that all the sin is confessed. Otherwise you won’t be able to fight and resist it, because you won’t know it’s there.”

Rook nods. John seems satisfied, and continues, gazing into Rook’s eyes as he speaks with utter sincerity.

“Now, I know you’re a good man, Rook. So I’ll do everything I can to make this easy for you. But confessing will entail pain. I will have to hurt you— for your own benefit. Knowing that, are you willing to continue?”

Rook hesitates. John’s giving him an out. And he wants to take it— oh Jesus, he wants to take it so bad. But then he won’t be able to get the evidence they need to take these sick bastards down, once and for all. They’ll keep stealing and hurting and kidnapping and Joseph’s probably going to gouge some other poor bastard’s eyes out, and John will keep doing whatever he’s been doing here, and this won’t end.

Rook nods, decisively.

“You’re sure?” John looks surprised.

Rook nods again and signs, a circular motion over his chest.

_Please._

John blinks, then he smiles.

“Well, then,” he says. “Let’s begin.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! I had a really hard time with the 'torture' part of this, so I ended up cutting almost all of it out, implying and vagueing instead. I'm not totally happy with this, but it's a turning point of the story and I just want to get on to the more fun stuff.

John is all excited, manic energy. A smile on his face as he paces the room.

“Now— I’d normally have you sit and tell me your entire life story,” John starts, turning to the table behind him. There are several items there: a thick binder, filled with papers. Several coils of rope. “Obviously that won’t work here. I can’t sign, you understand. But I do have pen and paper as a stopgap.”

John takes the pen and notebook from Rook’s hands.

“Now, are you right- or left-handed?” he asks. Rook lifts his right hand in answer, and John smiles. He places the pen in Rook’s fingers, opens the notebook, and puts Rook’s hand over it. Then he starts tying Rook to the chair, leaving only his right forearm free.

“Don’t look so worried,” John says. “This is merely a precaution. It’s to stop you accidentally hurting yourself when we start the third round.”

More likely to stop Rook being able to escape, Rook thinks. Once Rook is sufficiently bound, John picks up the binder.

“Now, I took the liberty of collecting your personal history— all of which was obtained using entirely legal methods, I might add. I hope you don’t mind.”

Rook doubts that any of that was legally obtained. Three days isn’t anywhere enough time to collect Rook’s life history legally, even for someone with as much clout as John. And someone as voracious as John would have eagerly torn through Rook’s past, looking for something juicy, something to justify his torture. Well, joke’s on John. Deputy Rook is clean as a fucking whistle.

Originally from Allen County, Indiana, he went to a Deaf school, then a university in Montana. He’s had a string of jobs in mostly manual labour, or night shift work. He doesn’t spend excessively. His hobbies aren’t the kind that leave much of a paper trail— he likes hunting, archery, and fishing. Cooking and baking, too. He’s got all the correct permits he needs, all his paperwork is up-to-date. No criminal record, no black marks on any of his records for that matter. The only thing he’s got damning him is his internet history and his Grindr profile. Both of which John is unlikely to have records of. And even if he does, Rook can use that to his advantage.

“So,” John sits on the worktable, flicks through the first few pages. “You were born and raised in Indiana? What’s that like, all corn and stuff?”

Rook nods. That’s a pretty fair assessment of the Midwest. Corn and stuff.

“Figures,” John mutters, mostly to himself. “Born in ’94. You were brought up Lutheran, right? And your parents divorced when you were eight. Must have been tough for you.”

This weird quasi-interrogation stretches on. John repeats random snippets of information about Rook’s life: where he grew up, the schools he attended, brings out snippets from local newspapers Rook’s name pops up in. There are court records from his parent’s divorce and subsequent custody battle, transcripts from Rook’s college education (he majored in psychology, graduated with honours), and his paperwork from the Academy. John’s got copies of Rook’s cellphone contract, his credit card bills, his student loan agreements, and more besides.

“Police officers don’t earn that much, do they?” John asks, one eyebrow raised. Rook shrugs as best he can, all tied up as he is.

“Debt can be tough to deal with,” John says. Not like he’d know, having been brought up with a silver spoon in his mouth. Rook knows his deal— he’s done his research. John’s lived a life of luxury, never had to worry about money or where his next meal is coming from, never had to take out a loan or a credit card or even a fucking take-a-penny. “That’s something the Father knows all too well.”

Joseph had at one point been homeless, if Rook remembers the biography right. He’d lived in near-constant poverty from his childhood until he met John again. And since their happy reunion, he’d leeched off his baby brother and the adoring flock of followers he’d cultivated.

“It’s okay to ask for help if you need it,” John adds, nothing but warmth and concern in his voice. “We’ve paid off a couple mortgages, some student loans and hospital bills too. Just something to keep in mind.”

That’s probably how they keep so many of their followers, even with the Father gouging people’s eyes out during Sunday services. At least some followers are too financially invested in the cult, John keeping their leashes tight. He can imagine John’s little spiel now: “Of course you may go, but you must return our money first. All the hundreds of thousands of dollars we so kindly gave to your creditors. With interest, of course. And do it quickly. You wouldn’t want to be sued into bankruptcy with a spouse and three children dependent on you, would you?” Rook fights to keep his face neutral, to stop his lip curling in disgust. 

“Oh— speaking of, are they paying you while you’re suspended?” John asks.

Rook nods.

“That’s good to hear,” John says. “You tell me if they’re being unfair to you, okay? I know the law like the back of my own hand. I’ll sort them out.”

Rook nods again.

“You must have felt pretty angry when Whitehorse suspended you, right?” John asks, after a moment. Rook considers this for a moment, and shakes his head. He starts writing: ‘ _I understand why he did it. The law is the law, and what I did was technically illegal._ ”

John peers at the writing, so close that Rook nearly chokes on the fumes of his fancy cologne, and makes a disapproving clicking with his tongue.

“Mm,” he says. “That may be so, but don’t you have the right to believe what you wish? The very backbone of our great country is the right to freedom of religion and freedom of speech. It’s not right that they tried to take it from you.”

They didn’t, Rook thinks, but he doesn’t write that. Instead, he lets his eyebrows start to furrow, like he’s seriously considering John’s honeyed words. 

John backtracks through Rook’s life, pulling out negative threads at every available opportunity. Rook’s quiet, secluded lifestyle becomes an inescapable prison of loneliness when recounted with John’s silver tongue. The comments written on his academic reports become sycophantic condescension through John’s hawk eyes.

“Let’s see… ‘John is a pleasant young man, and makes friends with relative ease despite his disability.’ Despite?” John scoffs. “Please. Like he’s never heard of text messaging before. What a dick."

And it continues: Rook’s choice to live away from home is questioned gently, with John clearly deciding that there’s something there Rook’s trying to hide. There’s not, not really. Rook’s hobby of choice, hunting, is a sign that he’s deeply angry about something. Rook goes along with that one: it can be a little frustrating, being unable to communicate easily with the rest of the county. The divorce becomes something traumatic in John’s narrative, rather than a generally amicable solution to Rook’s parents’ problems. And so on, and so forth.

Before beginning his third walk through Rook’s life, John stops. He crouches close to Rook, lays one gentle hand on Rook’s jaw. He’s too close, his breath warming Rook’s skin. His eyes, bluer than the fucking sky, are fixed on Rook’s own hazel ones.

“It must be hard,” John murmurs, voice full of irritating pity. “But it’s all right. You’re here now. Together, we will work through your sins. Together, we will draw them from your flesh. Together, we will cleanse you, and you will walk with us through Eden’s Gate…”

Okay. That’s pretty fucking creepy. And John’s got more where that came from:

“You know, it was my parents who first taught me about the power of ‘yes’…”

As John speaks, first describing the horrible abuse he’d suffered at the hands of his adoptive parents, then the spiritual enlightenment the pain brought him and all the other poor bastards who found themselves here, Rook notices that he’s got a strange tic. Whenever John speaks about the absolution of pain, the joy and fulfilment it brings, he makes a circular motion over his chest. He’s almost, but not quite signing _please_.

It’s like he’s silently begging for something he can’t quite vocalise. He’s got a faraway look in his eyes when he does that, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

It’s as though John enjoys pain.

Rook tries not to shudder at what that implies.

John starts questioning again. But this time there's aggression mingled with the kindness.

“It says here that you were bullied at school. Kids can be so cruel, can’t they?”

Rook nods, and John continues. He’s not a preacher, but he could be: he’s got the fire-and-brimstone ranting down to a tee.

“It’s not _right_ ,” John says. “If only they’d been taught better. If only their hearts were full of love. It’s not _fair_ , is it?”

Rook shakes his head in agreement.

“You must have been so _angry_ ,” John whispers. Rook nods hesitantly, and is rewarded by a hard slap in the face that leaves his cheek numb for a full three seconds.

“You were furious!” John snarls. “How dare they treat you like that!”

By the time they reach Rook’s college years, Rook’s sporting a bloody nose, a split lip, and the beginnings of a black eye.

“I’ll bet it was a lot of fun,” John murmurs, clasping his own hands over Rook’s immobilised left one. “So much freedom to do as you please… so many opportunities. Sex, drugs, alcohol. And I’ll bet you indulged them all, didn’t you?”

Rook shakes his head, hesitantly, and so John slowly bends Rook’s little finger back, past where it starts to hurt, to where it feels like it’s going to break, ligaments slowly tearing. Rook grunts in exaggerated pain, and nods frantically.

“I thought so,” John says, gently, as he returns Rook’s finger to its original position.

Eventually, they come to Rook’s arrival in Hope County, and the arrest. By then, he’s graduated from his bare hands to a small scalpel.

“Says here that Whitehorse was the only Sheriff in the state to consider your application,” John says. “The mute thing was too much for the others to even bother thinking about. What a bunch of assholes. You must’ve been so thankful when you got the position, right?”

Rook nods, breathing heavily. John hasn’t done anything that won’t be gone in a week, but it’s culminating. One cracked rib is painful, but manageable. A couple cracked ribs, plus a couple broken fingers, a fractured nose, a loose tooth, more bruises than Rook can count, and a litany of shallow cuts? That really, really hurts. 

“It must really suck to have lost your job,” John says. “Well, I guess you haven’t lost it yet, but it’s only a matter of time.”

Rook doesn’t respond, and hisses in pain as John makes a series of shallow cuts on the back of Rook’s left forearm. John gently slides his scalpel in horizontally, lifting the skin like it’s a fucking sticker.

“I have to wonder, though,” John says, eyes fixed on the raw flesh now bubbling with blood. “What would make you risk something so important? What on earth were you thinking when your Sheriff told you to arrest my brother?”

Rook isn’t sure of how to respond, so he doesn't.

“It was a miraculous conversion,” John says, and he yanks hard on the scrap of skin he’s lifted, tearing a long stripe down Rook’s arm. Rook jerks, gasping at the sudden, sharp pain. “ _Too_ miraculous, some might say.”

Shit. John suspects something.

Rook’s heart stops for a second. He hesitates. Maybe if he confesses to something the Peggies would consider scandalous, John will think that’s his biggest sin, and stop probing.

If he confesses to being homosexual, maybe he can cover the tracks his undercover mission is leaving behind. They’ll _definitely_ kill him for being a spy, but surely they wouldn’t kill him for being gay. Right? It’s difficult to gauge, considering that there's evidence that Joseph Seed gouges out people’s eyes for recording his church services.

He can’t think.

There’s no _time_.

Rook takes a deep breath, and goes for it.

‘ _Beautiful_ ’, he writes, with fingers half-numb from gripping the pen so tight.

“What?” John cocks his head, confusion scrunching up his face.

Rook looks away, at the floor. Shame. Yeah, that’s what Cultist Rook would feel. Shame, mingled with fear. A reluctance to admit a long-hidden secret. Rook grits his teeth and tries to will his face to burn, calling up old memories of tripping over in front of a school crush, of being humiliated by bullies as a kid.

Honestly, if this works, he should win a fucking Oscar.

Rook spells another two words, hesitantly, with hands trembling so much he can barely make the shapes with his pen. Is he overdoing it? No, he decides. Cultist Rook is a closeted mess. Cultist Rook is teetering on the edge of a panic attack. Cultist Rook inexplicably has a hard-on for the greasy, creepy cult leader he just threw his career away for.

‘ _Joseph is_ ’, Rook writes, right before the ‘ _beautiful_ ’.

“You… think that Joseph is beautiful?” John sounds surprised.

Rook does not respond. Instead, he starts weeping. Cultist Rook, hopelessly in love with the Father, would be utterly ashamed of his attraction, paralysed with fear and sorrow at having to admit it to a man as respected and important as the Baptist of Eden’s Gate.

John continues speaking, this time sounding thoughtful.

“You know, I wouldn’t have taken you for a faggot.”


	12. Chapter 12

Rook continues weeping, his heart hammering in his chest. Please let this work, he prays to the universe at large, to the god his mom used to sing hymns to, to anything that might be listening. He doesn't want to die here. 

“There’s no need to cry,” John says, and his voice is almost kind. Cool fingers grasp Rook’s jaw, gently lifting his head, forcing eye contact. John is crouching over him, just above eye level, and his expression is one of concern. “I’m not judging you. On the contrary, I understand you very well.”

John smiles, and in any other situation it would probably be an amicable, reassuring sort of smile. Here and now, bathed in the red light of this torture chamber, he looks like a serial killer. He leans forward, presses a familial kiss to Rook’s forehead, his beard tickling uncomfortably against Rook’s skin.

Oh, Jesus. _Nope_.

“I’m sure you must think very highly of my brother,” John says, settling back into his crouch. “He’s a good man, isn’t he?”

Rook nods, letting tears roll down his cheeks.

“He’s generous, kind, loving…” John pauses. “It probably helps that he never seems to wear a shirt.”

Rook grimaces, and nods again. Shame, fear, more shame. He’s laying it on thick, but John needs to believe this. He gasps for breath, with broken, silent sobs wracking his chest. His acting seems to work, because John chuckles and wipes the water from Rook’s eyes with his thumbs. It would be a caring gesture from anybody else.

“Oh, I told him something like this was bound to happen. Of course, you know what he said, don’t you? He said to me: ‘John, if the Devil puts lust and temptation into the hearts of our followers, that’s a trial they need to overcome themselves’. And, well, he’s right. You _do_ need to overcome this… unnatural inclination.”

If it’s an inclination, then it’s not unnatural, Rook thinks. That's just basic linguistics. 

“Fear not,” John adds, “for we are here to help you. Together, we will march to Eden’s Gate.”

John releases his grip on Rook’s face, and takes the notebook and pen back, tossing them on the worktable. He starts untying Rook, slowly unwinding rope from around his body. John’s hands linger, just a half-second too long, against Rook’s biceps and his stomach and his thighs.

“ _Lust_ ,” John says. “That’s your sin.”

John produces a first-aid kit from one of the drawers on the worktable. He carefully cleans and covers the cuts he’s made, bandaging the raw strip of flesh on Rooks arm in near-silence. Afterward, he grasps Rook’s arms and gently pulls upward: Rook stands obediently, trying not to sway on his feet. John wraps an arm around him, steadying Rook as he starts walking. He picks up Rook’s satchel on the way.

“Now, you’ll need a tattoo, for the first part of Atonement,” John says, as they walk through the bunker. He sounds casual, like he didn’t just spend God-knows-how-many hours gaslighting and beating Rook. “Or a scar, I suppose, but a tattoo, I think, is far nicer. And of course, you’ll need to be Marked. Normally we do that first, but your case was quite special. That’s a tattoo as well, by the way. Our cross inked into your skin. A steadfast reminder of our holy cause.”

They enter a new corridor. Well, Rook _thinks_ it’s a new corridor. They all look the same.

“I’m going to pencil in your Atonement for— uh— Tuesday. No, make that Wednesday. We can do your Marking at the same time. I’ll text you the details later,” John says, steering Rook into a white, sterile room that’s clearly acting as a clinic. “Doctor? I have a patient for you!”

A new cult member appears, a middle-aged woman with blonde hair pulled into a sensible bun. She squints at Rook through her spectacles, and doesn’t seem particularly surprised at Rook’s bruised and bloody appearance. On the contrary, she seems delighted.

“Welcome,” she says, brightly. “What’s your name?”

“Oh,” John says, and he glances at Rook. “Rook doesn’t talk. Uh… you don’t have any allergies, do you? Pre-existing medical conditions?”

Rook shakes his head. Just a lack of vocal chords. That’s all.

“I’ll get a pen and paper,” the doctor says, thoughtfully. “Thank you for bringing him to me, Herald John. I’ll take excellent care of him.”

“Great,” John replies. “I have to write some reports, so I’ll see you at the Atonement. One of my men will drive you home.”

John sets Rook’s satchel on a nearby chair and leaves, apparently satisfied. Rook can hear him whistling his way down the corridor. God, that’s creepy. Nobody should be that happy after torturing someone.

The doctor introduces herself: her name is Doctor Andrews, and she’s been with Eden’s Gate since the beginning. She rambles a little, isn’t the Father so wonderful, it’s so great that Rook’s joined the Project, oh yes it is.

She asks Rook to write down exactly where John had hurt him on a little paper diagram of a body, so he does. She examines every wound carefully: Rook’s hand and torso and head get x-rayed, she checks him for concussion, draws a little blood ‘just to be safe’. She double-checks the cuts that John cleaned and dressed, and finds them perfectly all right. Rook’s two broken fingers are splinted, his bloody nose is wiped clean, and, after a solid half-hour of tests, Doctor Andrews gives Rook her diagnosis: his fingers should be okay in a couple weeks, as long as he doesn’t do anything strenuous, and his cracked ribs and fractured nose will heal just fine on their own.

All in all, Doctor Andrews doesn’t seem too surprised at any of Rook’s injuries. Her matter-of-fact reaction when John arrived with Rook points to one thing: this is normal. John does this regularly. And since John recorded Rook’s confession, he probably also recorded some of the other Confessions he’s overseen.

Rook needs to get hold of those recordings. That’s exactly the kind of evidence Whitehorse and Burke need. He’ll have to keep his ears open for any opportunity to volunteer to assist John, to get back in here. And he’ll need to check the ranch, too. That might be easier: John’s a vain, upper-middle-class douchebag. He’s not going to polish his own hardwood floors or dust his own rafters or scrub his own toilet. There can't be that many people volunteering to do that kind of difficult, thankless work.

“You’re almost there,” Doctor Andrews says, straightening Rook’s bloody collar in an almost motherly manner. “After your Atonement, you’ll be one of the Father’s flock.”

_‘What is the Atonement?_ ’ Rook writes, on the edge of the paper.

“Oh, there’s no need to worry about that,” she says. “It’s different for each person. You do something to make up for your sin, and then it’s crossed through: you’re not bound by it any more.”

_‘How do I make up for my sin?_ ’

Andrews chuckles, a tad nervously.

“Well, John will have some ideas, I’m sure. As will the Father, of course. They’ll meet with you to decide on the exact thing you need to do, but it’ll be fine. They’ll never ask you for more than you can give.”

Rook nods, pretending to be comforted by her words, and then he’s lead back to the surface of the bunker. Doctor Andrews pulls him into a motherly hug goodbye, and one of John’s men drives him back to Fall’s End, as promised.

It’s not dark yet. The sun is starting to set, sky painted brilliant pink and orange. Rook can’t enjoy it, though. He’s got too much to think about.

The reports John mentioned almost certainly involve Rook’s confession, and the ‘revelation’ of his sin. And it sounds like Joseph Seed, and possibly the other two Heralds, will read it. At best, it means that Rook’s going to have to play the part of a lovesick puppy for God-knows-how-long. At worst… well, he doesn’t know what the others are going to think about his fake crush on Joseph. Honestly, he’d half-expected John to start flaying him. And instead, he’d gotten a creepy forehead kiss and a lot of touching and—

John had said “I understand you very well”. Which might not mean anything at all, but… his hands had lingered. He’d been so close to Rook, so close that Rook can still smell lingering traces of John’s fancy cologne on his clothes.

If John is attracted to men, there might be an opportunity here. Not for seduction— Jesus, Whitehorse isn’t paying him anywhere near enough for _that_ — but for kinship. The LGBT centre at college had been almost a home away from home, back when Rook had missed home and missed his friends and missed his ex. Maybe he can offer the same thing to John. Quiet, supportive understanding. Gain his trust through friendship, rather than solely through servitude. Yeah, that might work.

Rook has those apple pies on his kitchen counter. He can send the driver back with them: a token of appreciation. John’s bound to remember something like that. Everybody likes home-made baked goods. Rook grins to himself, digging his notebook and pen out of his satchel.

The pickup truck halts outside Rook’s house, and he nods a solemn thank you to the man driving— he’s tall and scrawny, with dark hair and eyes. 

_‘Are you returning to the Gate?_ ’ Rook writes, showing the driver.

“Yeah, I am,” he says. “Why? Do you need something?”

_‘Please wait here for a minute. There’s something I need you to take with you.’_  

“Sure,” he says, obviously surprised. “What is it?” 

Rook presses his finger to his lips, a ‘shush’ gesture, and hurries inside. He scribbles a quick note to give to the driver: ’ _A token of thanks for Herald John. Please make sure that you and Doctor Andrews eat some, too. :)_ ’

 Rook carefully places the pies into large, circular tupperware containers, carrying them out to the pickup truck with utmost care and concentration. The driver opens the truck door, carefully taking the pies one by one.

“Did you make these?” the driver asks, and Rook nods. He hands over the note, and the driver’s face really brightens up. “Oh? That’s real nice of you. I’m sure Herald John is going to appreciate these. I know I will.”  

The driver sticks out his hand.

“I’m Mike,” he says. “You’re that deputy, right? Rook?”

Rook nods.

“It’s good to meet you,” Mike says. “I gotta get back to the Gate— I’m supposed to be on guard duty. But hopefully I’ll see you around soon. Thanks again for the pie!”

Rook smiles and waves as Mike drives off, and he can see a couple of the neighbours peering through the curtains. If the whole town doesn’t already know that Rook’s a Peggie, they sure will by tomorrow morning. Gossip spreads fast in these parts.

Rook heads back inside. He needs to get ready for whatever tomorrow’s going to bring. All this Peggie shit has been so off-the-wall that at this point, he wouldn't be surprised if Joseph Seed's church services somehow included human sacrifice.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to gush about Far Cry (or anything else) with me, I can be found on tumblr at peltonea, or my personal blog is amistrio. :)


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter ended up being longer than i originally planned, partly because i accidentally ended the last chapter in a weird place. i should’ve ended it when rook goes to bed, but… that’s just how it is sometimes. this one ended in a kind of weird place because i'm severely sleep deprived right now and also if i hadn't cut it short i would have kept writing enough for a whole other chapter, and this is already a week later than i intended to post.
> 
> the reason eden’s gate have such a strange church service is because they’re a cult. and also because i haven’t attended a church service in like…. over two years and just kind of forgot how stuff goes. whoops.

Rook makes himself some chamomile tea, slowly goes through his nightly routine. He peels his gross, bloody clothes off, throws them at the laundry hamper, and showers quickly, careful not to disturb the dressings Doctor Andrews and John gave him. He changes into a pair of soft, clean sweats and lays out his only suit for the service tomorrow: it’s carefully pressed, pin-striped grey cotton with a white shirt. He has a pair of neat-looking work boots that he’ll wear with it. Sunday best, but not the vain kind.

Whitehorse is the one to check in today, the message coming through as Rook inspects the damage to his face in the bathroom mirror: he’ll have bruises in the morning for sure. Probably at least one black eye. He’ll sleep with an ice pack tonight, just in case that’ll help.

 **Whitehorse (20:14):** You left some stuff at the office the other day. Do you mind if I come and drop them off tomorrow?

 **Rook (20:16):** Sure. I’ll be in from noon.

He’s not sure if Whitehorse will literally come over— probably, just in case Rook is being watched. But what could he have left at the office? Whitehorse might just bring some random stuff: Rook’s coffee jar, the candy he keeps hidden in his filing cabinet, the spare chargers he leaves in his desk drawer.

Rook brushes his teeth gingerly and rinses his mouth with salt water, wincing at the way the salt burns at the cuts in his mouth, seeps into the loose tooth and burns that from the inside. When he spits, there are strings of blood in the water. If it’s not better by next Sunday, he’ll call the dentist.

When he finally collapses into bed, he drifts off immediately and sleeps like the dead, hardly shifting position through the night.

His sleep is not very restful. He’s still exhausted when he wakes.

With the insistent chirping of Rook’s alarm clock at four-thirty comes a litany of pain, somehow worse than the evening before. It’s still dark out and Rook forces himself to sit up. The ice pack has melted, so he shoves it back in his freezer when he heads to the kitchen to prepare his coffee.

Rook brushes his teeth, careful not to touch the loose one, and rinses with the medicated mouthwash his mom keeps recommending. He doesn’t shave, even though he wants to— his jaw is a little swollen from John’s tender care yesterday, and he’s supposed to be growing a beard— so he settles for checking his injuries in the mirror again. His face is bruised, but not as badly as he’d expected. Maybe the ice pack did some good.

Rook dresses himself in his suit, double-knots his boot laces, and combs his hair into a semi-neat parting. He double-checks that he’s got his cell, his wallet, and his keys.Then he heads out to his car and drives out.

Hope County is beautiful at all times of day and night, but there’s something especially awe-inspiring about driving past the moonlit fields of Holland Valley as purple and pink starts to colour the eastern horizon. Rook doesn’t turn on the radio: he doesn’t want this sliver of goodness to be discoloured in his memory by Eden’s Gate and their music.

The fields of Holland Valley give way to the rolling hills of the Henbane. Rook turns left at Lorna’s Truck Stop, follows the highway north. There are already people at the Eden’s Gate Outreach Centre, cars and trucks parked outside. Rook wonders if he’s going to have to join them in spreading the Word of Joseph, all creepy and happy-clappy. Probably not, he decides. They’ll want people who can speak for that kind of thing.

The Eden’s Convent parking lot is pretty full when Rook pulls up. There are a couple cars parked on the roadside here, so he follows suit and pulls over onto the grass.

The convent used to be run by Catholic nuns, back in the sixties, but had lain empty for a couple decades before being bought up by the Seed family, their first purchase in Hope County. There had been a painstaking and loving restoration, the ruined chapel being rebuilt into a picture-perfect church. The old dormitories had been rebuilt in whitewashed wood, becoming home for the first cultists to move up from Georgia, as well as Faith. The three brothers had initially stayed in a rented cabin not far from here, until John had bought the land for his ranch, and then the old Veteran’s Centre and… well, everything had snowballed from there.

The main reason Rook had wanted to attend this service at this church was because of its history. The first service Joseph offered his flock in Hope County, at the first church they set up. If Rook has to dive deep into the cult, there’s no better place to start. This is where the most fervent believers will be, the ones who have been here the longest.

There’s the compound church too, of course, but Rook has checked: the church there is more for Joseph’s personal use than for the Project as a whole. That’s where Joseph practices his sermons and spends long hours praying to his God. The services held there are spontaneous, there’s nothing organised at all. Or if it is, the information is not widely circulated. Rook will have to wait for a chance to stay at the compound again before he can observe the services there. The compound is probably the best place to figure out what on earth is going on inside Joseph Seed’s head. He’ll have to figure out an excuse to visit…

There are ushers at the entrance to the church itself. They don’t look particularly horrified at Rook’s bruised face, but he does get a quirked eyebrow from the one who hands him a hymn book.

Eden’s Convent is exactly as one would expect on the inside. It lacks the traditional cruciform above the pulpit, but could otherwise be easily mistaken for one of the many Baptist churches scattered across America. The stage has a couple musical instruments behind the pulpit: a standing piano, a few guitars, a drum kit. There’s a gallery above the main doors, where a couple people are sitting, attention on something hidden by the railing: he recognises one of them, with his dark hair scraped into a bun and yellow aviators immediately, and turns his attention elsewhere, before Joseph can look up and notice him staring.

Rook ought to find somewhere to sit. Somewhere he can observe unobtrusively. There are maybe eight pews to each side of the church, as well as a number of chairs in a semicircle at the very front. There are more chairs in a line behind the backmost set of pews. Before Rook can decide where to go, someone grabs his arm.

“Deputy!” Faith cries, face lit with utter delight. “You came today! I’m so glad— oh, you must come with me!”

Rook stumbles along after Faith as she drags him to the front of the church. She doesn’t take him to the inner circle, rather, she takes him to the first pew, where there are a few well-dressed men and women chatting. She taps one woman on the shoulder, this one with red hair and kohl-ringed eyes.

“Sister Ruth!”

The woman turns, face immediately brightening into a sycophantic smile.

“Faith, it’s so good to see you,” Ruth greets her enthusiastically.

“And you, may the Father be praised,” Faith agrees. “Ruth, this is my dear friend, Deputy Rook. He’s new to Eden’s gate, just had his Confession the other day. Could you…?”

“Of course,” Ruth agrees immediately. To what, Rook isn’t sure. “I’m glad to meet you, Rook.”

 _Likewise,_ Rook signs, and Ruth looks surprised.

“You’re deaf?”

Rook shakes his head, and Faith jumps in again.

“Oh, no, Rook here doesn’t speak,” she says, an awkward giggle colouring her words. Then she takes Ruth’s hands into her own, an adoring gaze fixed on Ruth’s eyes. “Thank you so much, Ruth. You’re so compassionate— I’m certain the Father will be as glad as I am when he hears about this.”

At that, the concern that was starting to crease Ruth’s face dissipates and she smiles at Faith.

“Thank you, Faith,” she says. “Come, Rook— sit next to me. You’re in for a real treat: the Father’s sermons really are the perfect way to start your day. If you’d like, I can send you a link to his weekly podcast— it’s what I listen to in the mornings.”

Rook nods enthusiastically, and gives her the information she requests: his e-mail address and his cell number. Then Ruth introduces him to the other people on their pew: Deborah is in charge of volunteering. James is one of John’s logistics managers. Peter manages the cult radio station. Each person is equally delighted to meet Rook, all warm smiles and firm handshakes. And there’s the inevitable awkwardness when they realise that he signs instead of speaks, accompanied by a hurried explanation by Ruth, and then they move swiftly to the next person, until they’re halfway down the pew and a piano starts playing.

Ruth gestures to the pew: everybody else is starting to sit, so Rook follows suit. There are men and women arranged on the stage now, picking up their instruments. He can see Faith cross the church, and she sits in one of the chairs arranged in a semicircle. She waves at a couple members of the congregation before facing forward, apparently jittery with excitement for whatever is to come.

Please don’t be human sacrifice, Rook prays, to whatever might be listening. Please don’t be human sacrifice.

A couple of other people join the semicircle— one woman in a modest red and black dress beside Faith, a man and a woman in well-tailored suits nearby, and there are two men in a close approximation of a military dress uniform. There’s something off about the clothes, but Rook doesn’t know enough about the military to make an educated guess.Another man he recognises joins the semicircle: it’s John, self-assuredly smug in his hideously expensive suit. John spots Rook, and manages to somehow look even more smug. He shoots Rook a blinding smile before settling into his chair, leaning over to whisper to Faith.

The piano stops, and a hush descends on the room. Joseph appears, wearing a neatly-pressed shirt and blazer, accompanied by Jacob. Joseph whispers something to his brother before ascending onto the stage as Jacob takes the last remaining seat in the semicircle. Joseph stands at the pulpit, takes a moment to run his gaze— piercing even through the yellow lenses of his glasses— over his congregation. His eyes rest just a moment too long on Rook before moving on. He smiles, welcoming and encouraging. 

“Good morning,” he says. His voice carries easily through the silence. “It’s wonderful to see you all today. Some of you have been with me since the beginning, and some have joined in the last couple days. Every day, I thank the Lord for sending each and every one of you to me. But as I’m sure you know, we cannot simply sit passively by and pray for the Lord to send wayward souls to us. No, we must go out into the world and invite our brothers and sisters in humanity to join us. To walk hand-in-hand with us through Eden’s Gate. It doesn’t matter that they carry sin in their hearts. It doesn’t matter that they hate us and spit on us and tread us into the ground. We must act with grace and compassion and implore them to join us.”

Joseph’s sermon is surprisingly short and restrained: he sounds very much like the pastor Rook remembers from his mom’s church as a kid. Soft-spoken, rarely raising his voice, but firm and unwavering in his belief. A far cry from the wild, manic energy of the attempted arrest. It’s weirdly peaceful: Joseph’s soothing voice and the pink-orange of the sunrise through the window behind him. The subject matter— converting others— so similar to the kinds of sermons Rook sat through as a kid.

Rook joins in the responses to Joseph’s words as best he can, nodding along at what seems like appropriate times. And when Joseph ends his sermon, introducing the first hymn of the day. Rook joins the spoken “amen” that resounds around the room with his signed one: a thumbs-up brought down onto his flat palm.

The congregation sing Amazing Grace together, Rook mouthing along to some of the words. Then Joseph leads his congregation in prayers, interspersed with a mixture of cult songs and actual Christian hymns: there’s one that seems to be singing the praises of John, who’s clearly enjoying the attention, and another one that’s about rising again after the apocalypse.

Annoyingly, the cult music is really good. 

After the hymns and prayers comes the Eucharist. Joseph breaks bread with dramatic flair, and the people in the semicircle go up to receive the bread and a mouthful of wine first. The Heralds each take something: Faith and Jacob take a cup of wine each, while John picks up a second plate of bread, and they assemble to each side of the stage: Joseph and Jacob to Rook’s side, Faith and John on the other. The rest of the people in the semicircle come to the pews, indicating to the congregation when to go up and receive their portion of the blessing.

Rook’s pew go to Joseph and Jacob. It’s been a long time since he’s done this, but he remembers more or less what to do: accept the bread with both hands cupped humbly. Nod in thanks, put it in one’s mouth, then move along and take a half-mouthful of wine. _Amen_. Back to pew. It’s what he remembers, and what the men and women ahead of him seem to be doing.

“May the blessings of the Lord be upon you,” Joseph murmurs, looking straight into Rook’s eyes as he places bread in Rook’s hands. He doesn’t think that’s what the pastor is supposed to say, but…well. It doesn't really matter, does it? This is how Eden's Gate are doing it. 

Rook averts his eyes, nods in thanks and moves along. Fortunately, Jacob doesn’t even bother looking at him, merely tilts the cup and wipes it with an Eden’s Gate-embroidered cloth once Rook’s taken his sip of glorified grape juice, just as he did for the eight or so people who came before, and just as he does for the people who take their wine after Rook.

After the Eucharist there are more prayers, and more hymns, and then Joseph takes the pulpit once more, sending his flock off with a bright smile as dawn finishes breaking behind him.

“Now go in peace, to love and serve the Lord!” Joseph declares. 

“Amen!” comes the joyous response.

And then it’s over. No human sacrifices in sight. Rook can't help but breathe a sigh of relief as the band starts playing something equal parts relaxing and cheerful. Joseph leaves the pulpit, heading for the same door he entered from as the inner circle start rising. Faith stretches her arms and bounces up, eagerly bounding toward a parishoner she’d clearly missed speaking to earlier. John gets out his cellphone, thumbs tapping rapidly across the screen. Jacob stays with the military-suited couple… could they be the Chosen mentioned in the leaflets Rook was given?

Rook doesn’t get a chance to try to find out, because that’s when John stands up and starts walking toward him.


	14. Chapter 14

“Glad you made it,” John greets Rook warmly, a friendly smile stretched across his mouth as though he didn’t spend the greater part of yesterday beating the shit out of Rook. As though Rook isn’t covered head-to-toe in bruises and bandages.

 _Hello_ , Rook signs.

John pauses for a moment, and then signs something that’s a pretty close approximation of _how are you?_. He gets the hand movements more or less right, but his expression is one of concentration, rather than the quizzical gaze or raised eyebrow that would make the question obvious. Clearly he’s been studying, though he hasn’t had much practice.

If John weren’t such a dick, Rook would probably appreciate his attempts at signing.

 _I’m fine,_ Rook replies, taking care to sign extra slowly. _How are you?_

 _Fine_ , John replies, clumsily.

 _Your signing is very good_ , Rook signs. _Have you been studying long?_

“I only started studying sign language last night,” John admits aloud, looking a little sheepish. “I didn’t quite get that.”

Rook repeats himself in his ever-present notebook, with quick, eager letters. He shows John, who seems pleasantly surprised.

“Oh, thank you,” John chuckles. He’s trying to act humble, but he clearly likes the praise: he can’t hide the pride in his voice or the quirking of his mouth. “It’s a work in progress.”

‘ _I’d be happy to teach you more, if you’d like,_ ’ Rook offers. ‘Happy’ is an overstatement, for sure. But it’s a chance to get in John’s ranch, hopefully without any torture.

“Are you sure? That would be great,” John says. “I don’t have much free time at the moment… Can I talk to you about it on Wednesday?”

Rook smiles and nods, and then John glances over Rook’s shoulder. He looks back at Rook.

“Thank you for the pie, by the way. It was delicious. Really appreciated it. Uh— I have to go, but I’ll see you on Wednesday morning!”

Then John is gone, making a beeline toward a pretty woman in a simple grey dress, and Rook breathes a sigh of relief. Good. So far everything has gone far better than he’d hoped. He’s got a way to get into John’s inner circle. Now he just needs to do the same with the others…

Rook glances around. Most of the congregation are milling around, speaking with their friends and neighbours. Maybe he can find— oh, what was her name? Deborah? Maybe he can get his name on one of the volunteer schedules. One of the pamphlets mentioned cooking for the Seed family, and for Project events… 

“Hello, Deputy!” a breathless voice says, from near his elbow, jerking him from his thoughts. Faith again.

 _Hello,_ Rook smiles, turning to face her fully.

“Did you enjoy the service?” Faith asks, eagerly.

Rook nods, smiles with all the fake enthusiasm he can muster. It had been surprisingly tame, for Eden’s Gate. That’s pretty much all he thinks about it.

“Oh, how wonderful!” Faith cries, clasping her hands together as she bounces on her heels in delight. “I’m so happy to hear that!” She gives a sweet, girlish giggle, before looking more serious. “Now, John told me that your Confession went really well, and he’s got your Atonement scheduled for Wednesday, is that right?”

Rook nods.

“Great,” Faith beams. “Now, normally before new initiates join the Project, they do something called ‘Walking the Path’. There’s a pilgrimage leading from Joseph’s Word— the statue just up there,” Faith points southwest, arm raised upward “—and it goes around the entire Henbane region. It’s beautiful… it’s perfect for preparing your body and mind for Cleansing and Confession, and Atonement too.”

Faith produces a small pamphlet from one of the folds of her lace dress, and daintily holds it out to Rook with both hands.

“Of course, you can Walk the Path at any time, but there’s an official pilgrimage along the Path starting tomorrow evening— it’ll take all of Tuesday, but you’ll be free in time for your Atonement on Wednesday. Of course, I understand if you’d rather nurse your injuries…” Faith trails off, looking away, somehow demure and flirtatious at the same time.

This is a perfect opportunity to cement himself as useful to Faith, as dedicated to the Project. He enjoys hiking. It sounds boring, but it’s not like he expected this to be particularly fun. And, perhaps more importantly, it sounds like John did exactly as Rook expected. He’s clearly been talking to the other Heralds about Rook’s Confession— how else would Faith know that Rook has so much free time?

 _I’ll do it,_ Rook signs. And then, at Faith’s obvious confusion, he writes: ‘ _I’d love to._ ’

Faith squeals with utter joy, clapping her hands excitedly. Rook wonders, briefly, if she’s ever not delighted or joyful.

“Oh! I’m so glad!” Faith cries. “John gave me your cellphone number— I hope that’s okay! I can send you the details later, and if you need a ride to Joseph’s Word or anything, we’d be happy to oblige!”

Faith gushes for a few more minutes about how happy she is that Rook is getting involved with the Project, before excusing herself. By then, the crowds are thinning somewhat: Jacob is nowhere to be seen, but to be honest, Rook would rather let his body heal a little more before he tries one of Jacob’s retreats. He’ll try to get details on that next week. Impressing two Heralds is more than enough work for one week.

Deborah is still around, so Rook sidles over.

 _Excuse me_ , he signs, to get her attention, then he brings out his notebook. ‘ _I was wondering if there were any opportunities for me to get involved with volunteering for the Project_.’

Thus begins a long conversation with Deborah, made longer by the fact Rook has to write everything and Deborah insists on speaking just a little too slowly, enunciating just a little too exaggeratedly: it’s great that Rook wants to get involved, but he can’t actually volunteer until his Atonement is over. There are a number of posts open, and Deborah would just love to talk to Rook about it— but later. Today, she’s in charge of cooking for the Father and the Seed family, which is why she’s at the sunrise service. Rook gets her cell number, and agrees to send Deborah a list of the skills he feels most confident in, and in return he receives a promise that Deborah will send him a list of the open posts as soon as she has the time to go through her schedules.

Once he’s finally free of that conversation, the congregation is starting to thin significantly. Faith and John can still be seen speaking to random members of the congregation— Faith’s speaking with an elderly couple near the stage, while John is talking to a different woman, his hand resting on her hip. Not inappropriate per se, but definitely closer than Rook would expect him to be. A girlfriend? The way the woman is looking at him would support that conclusion.

It’s not Rook’s business, though it might be useful later. He does his best to remember the woman’s face, and then he heads out to his car. There are significantly more parking spaces in the lot now, with a fair number of people enjoying the garden surrounding the church. Maybe next week, he’ll join them: the views from Eden’s Convent are spectacular, especially bathed in golden morning light like this. But right now, he has a report to give.

When he gets into his car, Rook takes a moment to breathe. Everything went fine. He’s integrating pretty well— better than he’d expected.

Rook nods to himself, and starts the engine.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot wait until I can start introducing the GFH! For now, they’re just going to appear in cameos, but they will all show up for real a bit later!

The Henbane always looks beautiful, but with soft, golden light filtering through the mist rising off the river, it’s honest-to-God heavenly.

There are few other vehicles on the long, winding roads, just a couple cars and trucks from the Convent. There doesn’t seem to be anybody following Rook, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. He’s got a quiver of arrows and his compound bow in the back of the truck: he’ll pull in at the pylons just down the way from 8-Bit, hunt a couple rabbits after the briefing to give himself an alibi, just in case Eden’s Gate does have eyes following him or patrols in the region.

There’s a police cruiser sitting outside Boshaw Manor when Rook passes by. Looks like Whitehorse is at the door, talking to one bored-looking Charlemagne Victor Boshaw IV. Rook’s never met the guy personally, but his face is plastered everywhere in the County. He’s wanted on, like, eight different charges, but somehow never gets arrested despite how serious they are— arson and illegal possession of firearms being the most pressing.

“He’s harmless,” Whitehorse had explained, when Rook asked about it one time. “He’s just poor and uneducated and he’s not hurting anybody. He shouldn’t have those warrants in the first place, to be honest. I reckon he pissed off that John Seed somehow.”

Rook kind of doubts that Boshaw is entirely harmless, considering that Boshaw’s managed to burn down, like, eight different buildings in the single year Rook has been around, but he trusts Whitehorse. If the Sheriff thinks it’s not worth bringing Boshaw in, it’s probably not worth it.

Hudson is already inside 8-Bit when Rook strides in through the back. She’s standing in the main room, hunched over papers on the table. There’s a radio playing in the kitchen, the smell of frying bacon and freshly-brewed coffee filling the air. Hudson’s in her uniform, which means she’s probably on day duty later. She glances up at the sound of Rook’s footsteps and frowns.

“Fuck, you look awful,” she says.

 _Thank you_.

“That John Seed really did a number on you, didn’t he?” Hudson asks. She pulls out a chair for Rook, gestures for him to sit. “Pratt’s cooking breakfast. He got hungry.”

That’s good news. Pratt’s actually a pretty decent cook, even if he likes his eggs rubbery.

Hudson pours Rook a cup of coffee, presumably because she feels bad for him, and goes back to her paperwork. Rook glances over, and it looks mostly like sales reports and bank statements.

“I’m looking through John Seed’s transaction history,” Hudson says, when she sees him reading. “There’s got to be something dirty there. He must have slipped up somewhere.”

It’s a good start. Rook nods, sips his coffee as Pratt sings along to The Platters on the radio. The coffee helps perk him up a little, but he’s still exhausted. Exhausted and aching and in desperate need of rest. As soon as Rook gets home, he’s going to go to bed, and he’s absolutely not emerging from his cocoon of blankets until noon tomorrow.

Pratt emerges from the kitchen a few minutes later, out of uniform, carrying a plate laden with food in each hand. He pauses when he reaches the table, sees Rook’s black eye and split lip and his splinted fingers.

“Whoa,” Pratt says, sliding a plate to Rook. It’s piled high with egg, bacon, sausage and hash browns, a couple triangles of buttered toast perched precariously on the edge. “I was gonna say ‘good to see you’, but you look like shit.”

_Thanks._

Rook digs in. He hadn’t even realised how hungry he is— he forgot to eat after the Confession, and it was too early to stomach anything when he got up this morning. The scrambled eggs are rubbery as expected, the toast is burnt, but it’s food and it’s good and he’s grateful for it.

Pratt gives Hudson the other plate, then vanishes for a minute before reappearing with one of his own.

“Burke not coming?” Pratt asks, shoving a forkful of egg into his mouth.

“He’s on his way. He’d be here by now, but he took the wrong turning— ended up at the jail by accident.”

“Figures,” Pratt snickers. “Those city douchebags can’t navigate to save their lives. Surprised he managed to get out of Fall’s End on his own. What about Whitehorse?”

B-O-S-H-A-W 

“Damn, this early? What’d he burn down this time?” Pratt asks. Rook shrugs— he has no idea.

_How is everything at the station?_

“It fucking sucks,” Pratt says. “You know Whitehorse made me go get the office coffee yesterday? That’s supposed to be your job.”

 _My heart bleeds,_ Rook signs as Hudson snickers.

“In all seriousness, it’s okay. We got the part-timers covering half of your shifts,” Hudson says. “Even Nancy’s pitching in to help. Nobody seems able to stop talking about your conversion— it’s real hot gossip in Fall’s End. Probably the most exciting thing to happen ‘round here since that thing with Nick and John.”

Rook nods. He remembers that. Rumours had started up about eight months back, that John Seed fucked Kim Rye and Nick Rye was a wife-beating asshole. Of course, it had all been bunk, but Nick had been livid. He’d eventually lost his shit and threatened to strafe John Seed’s fancy-ass house one night at the Spread Eagle— Rook and Pratt and Hudson had been there, enjoying a quiet beer after a hard day, and… well, it had all been a mess. Nobody had been arrested, but driving home a weepy, overly talkative aviator wasn’t exactly fun.

 _Good_ , he signs, and that’s when Burke finally shows up. He looks like a different person in his civilian gear— more relaxed, but somehow still out of place in laid-back, rural Montana.

“Got a plate for me?” he asks, glancing pointedly at the table.

“Good morning to you too,” Pratt says, cheerfully. “It’s in the kitchen. Might be cold now, though.”

“Where’s Whitehorse?” Burke asks, vanishing into the kitchen.

“Boshaw Manor,” Pratt replies. “You didn’t come that way?”

“No, I turned back the way I came,” Burke says. “I don’t know these roads. Didn’t want to get lost.”

“A little late for that,” Pratt mutters, too low for Burke to hear as he returns, plate in one hand, steaming mug of coffee in another.

Burke sits down, picks up his fork, and looks at Rook.

“That John Seed really fucked you up.”

Rook nods.

“I wasn’t expecting it to be that bad,” Burke admits. “Maybe this Peggie shit is more serious than I thought.”

Pratt rolls his eyes, but he’s interrupted by Whitehorse finally arriving, looking weary and exhausted. He must have been on night shift, then.

“Boshaw give you trouble?” Hudson asks.

“No more than usual,” Whitehorse replies. “Good to see you’re still in one piece, Rook.”

 _More or less_.

Whitehorse nods at the table. “Plate for me in the kitchen?”

“Yeah, coffee, too,” Pratt says, helpfully.

Once Whitehorse is settled, Rook’s near enough finished with his breakfast. He takes one final swig of coffee, pushes his plate away, and signs.

_Ready to start?_

“Sure,” Whitehorse says. “Get the camera on.”

Rook does, angles it so that it’ll catch his signing more clearly, and then they start debriefing. Like the last attempt, it takes a long time, mostly because Burke and Whitehorse are trying to eat and talk at the same time, Hudson filling out the paperwork as Pratt sits back, enjoying the hottest Eden’s Gate gossip straight from the horse’s… hands.

“I’m surprised they didn’t jump right into torturing the shit out of you,” Pratt says, when Rook gets to the second walk-through of his life story. “I mean, obviously good surprised, but… yeah.”

“I think the point is to break them mentally,” Hudson says. “That’d fit with the way he kept twisting and poking at your life story, wouldn’t it?”

“It’s a pretty standard cult technique,” Burke says. “Not the torture part, but the creepy ‘changing your life story’ thing. If they make your life outside the cult seem worse than it really was, amp up the feelings of loneliness and sadness and all that shit, it’ll be easier to make you believe that the cult is the only way to lead a happy life. Make you reluctant to leave when shit hits the fan.”

When Rook gets to the third walk-through, to his false confession, Whitehorse shakes his head, clearly anxious.

“That was a risky move, Rook,” he says. “You be extra careful from here on out, you hear? First sign of trouble, you tell me and we get you out of there.”

Pratt, conversely, seems to think the entire thing is hilarious.

“You told him you wanted to fuck Joseph Seed?” he gasps for breath, dissolving helplessly into a fit of giggles. “Jesus, and he believed you? Has he even looked at his brother?”

_Probably not in that way, no._

“I don’t know, I wouldn’t put anything past those Peggie creeps,” Hudson mutters. She looks up, her brown eyes creased with worry. “Seriously, though, you be careful. Getting this evidence isn’t worth you getting hurt. They fuck you up worse than this? You leave. We’ll find some other way to take them down.”

They won’t be able to find another way, Rook already knows. If things get worse than a couple broken fingers and John Seed’s creepy Baptist routine, he’ll just have to endure. He'll think of something. Rook nods anyway, tries to put Whitehorse at ease.

They move onto the medical examination: Burke isn’t surprised that John’s got his own cult hospital up and running in his bunker. Rook’s ride home. His gift of baked goods.

“Nice idea with the pies,” Whitehorse says. “I’m sure John will remember that.”

 _He did,_ Rook signs, and then he launches into his explanation of the service earlier: how disarmingly normal it was, how John and Faith had spoken to him, how he’s trying to get on the cooking rota for the Father and his family.

“Sign lessons, huh?” Whitehorse mutters, looking thoughtful. “That’s a great start, getting in that big old ranch. Good work.”

Hudson makes an unhappy noise.

“Assuming Rook’s gonna be in one piece after his Atonement,” she says. “Their idea of Confession is fucked up enough— what’re they gonna want him to do to atone for being gay? It could be anything.”

“What, you worried they’re gonna try to cut his dick off or something?” Pratt asks, quirking a brow up.

Hudson shakes her head, looking uncomfortable.

“No,” she says. “I— never mind. It’s probably going to be fine. I just…”

“You don’t want anything bad to happen to Rookie,” Whitehorse says. “That’s understandable. Neither do I.”

 _I’m going to be okay_ , Rook signs. Just to be safe, he parrots what Whitehorse keeps saying: _If I’m not, I’ll bow out and we’ll get the Project another way._

“Exactly,” Whitehorse says, nodding along. “So. Game plan: Rook, you try to get as much information as you can at the Pilgrimage. We’ll have another debriefing on Wednesday night, after the Atonement. Thursday morning if it runs late or you can’t make Wednesday for whatever reason—“ he means ‘if they fuck you up good’, but he’s trying to be diplomatic “— and in the meantime we’ll carry on with our check-ins. You got any plans for next week?”

 _Find out more about Jacob’s retreats?_ Rook suggests. _I won’t be able to do much until my fingers heal up, though. Otherwise I’ll carry on with trying to impress John and Faith._

“Good,” Burke says, once Whitehorse has translated. “Try to figure out a way into John’s bunker. If he’s been recording his little torture sessions, we’ll need the tapes.”

Rook nods. He thinks about mentioning his theory about John’s sexuality, but eventually decides against it. He’s not certain that he’s right, and if he is, it doesn’t seem right to out John like that, even if it’s just to Whitehorse and the others. He’ll mention it if it seems relevant.

“Then I think we’re about done,” Whitehorse says. “Let’s get some photographs of those wounds, and we’ll call it a day.”

Pratt leaps into action, moving the free-standing lights around the room, grabbing the spare forensics camera they’ve liberated for this particular case. He’s the one who begins the arduous process of helping Rook unbandage himself, as Whitehorse and Burke start clearing the table, Hudson frantically scribbling on the last pieces of paper.

Eventually, they’re done, and Rook’s free to go. It’s nearly eleven, and the morning mist is gone, though the light in the Henbane still has that slightly heavenly quality: maybe it’s the specks of pollen and petals floating on the breeze.

Rook grabs his hunting gear from the truck,hikes north a little, spends a good half hour carefully observing his surroundings. He’s not out to hunt anything in particular, he just needs an alibi for spending so much time in this area. He finally spots a couple of rabbits, manages to get two before the others run off. He skins and cleans them, leaves the bones for mother nature to reclaim.

The hike back to Rook’s truck is quick and uneventful. There’s no sign of anybody at 8-Bit when he passes by again. Pratt's quad is gone, and so is the police cruiser. When Rook gets back to the pylon he parked by, everything seems just as he left it. It doesn’t look like anybody’s been snooping around. That doesn’t necessarily mean anything, though.

Rook throws his gear and his spoils into the back of the truck, stretches some of the stiffness out of his shoulder and his back, and starts the engine. He sighs, flicks on the radio (same old Peggie bullshit, but he doesn’t change it) and starts making his way back home, to his bed.

He’s going to sleep for at least a whole day, he decides. At least a whole day, and then he can worry about dragging himself up to the statue for Faith’s pilgrimage.


End file.
